


A Brotherhood Forged

by surprisepink



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Human/Monster Romance, Life Death and Afterlife, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Theseus Just Fully On His Bullshit, homoerotic wrestling, like really slow because what is time in the underworld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisepink/pseuds/surprisepink
Summary: Theseus, haunted by the actions of the Minotaur before it was slain, seeks out the creature in Erebus in order to tie up the loose ends. He gets more than he bargained for: a conversation, a partner, a companion.(The story from life to afterlife of how Theseus and Asterius became partners.)
Relationships: Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 116





	1. The Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull of Minos suffers, until he doesn't.

There was an irony in being treated like both monster and god.

Asterius had been locked tightly away from all that he ever knew so that he might be fattened for the slaughter, all the while receiving sacrifices the likes of which even Zeus could not imagine. But it was appropriate, Asterius supposed: he was, after all, born from the illicit union of beast and goddess.

Minos thought, falsely, that Asterius lacked the presence of mind to comprehend the ironic turn that his life had taken. He had thought the product of his wife’s sins a simple creature, neither thinking, nor understanding, nor feeling. Only wishing to worsen the lives of those around him, and of Minos most of all. He must have thought the product of human and bull was such an abomination that it would be duller than either and more dangerous than both.

In truth, as he wandered the labyrinth for countless days and nights, Asterius could think of nothing _but_ the nature of his lot in life. It was all he could do to preserve what little sanity he had left. To dwell on his own feelings brought only grief, but if he allowed himself to forget his sorrow he might instead become the monster that all of Crete already knew that he was.

It might seem like a shame that Minos didn’t realize the MInotaur’s potential, if Asterius thought his situation pitiable. As it was, he only wondered why Minos even bothered to allow him to live, let alone to take on the role of worshipper. He saw no logic in it, and Minos had never seen reason to explain his choice. Perhaps he respected the half-human creature that had taken on his name. Perhaps he feared him.

One in a great while—every year, every nine years, every century?—Asterius’ small world changed, and for a few brief weeks a group of companions joined him in his prison. It was one more thing that without a way to measure the passage of time, he had no way to anticipate, beyond the knowledge that it would certainly happen eventually. More than anything else, he dreaded it.

Seven of the strongest youths and seven of the loveliest maidens. Was it a plea to the Minotaur to satisfy himself with the taste of their flesh? A show of thanks to him for not escaping his labyrinth? Or perhaps the people of Athens had come to see him as a sort of god in his own right, and believed that some good fortune might come if they only delivered the traditional sacrifices.

But the gods and goddesses that ruled them—and the gods did control the fates of mortals to whichever degree they saw fit—could also bestow blessings on the people, and their generosity was as strong as their wrath. Asterius himself had no ability to bestow anything except for death, and so any sacrifices to him were wholly undeserved.

None of it had been of his own choosing: not his monstrous form, not the hunger that had grown within him since childhood, not this sprawling maze built to taunt him with a possibility of escape that a simple prison would never offer. His very existence had been thrust upon him against his will, and each minute of it was a curse. Had it been up to him, Asterius would have had Minos simply end his life decades ago—or, even better, end it the moment that he left his mother’s womb.

Pasiphaë, though she’d possessed both the strength of a witch and the wrath of a goddess, had refused to have him slaughtered when she had the chance. Despite his form she saw him as her son and believed he had a goodness within him; she told Asterius as much once he was old enough to understand. What tragedy, Asterius thought, such devotion was. What disappointment she must have felt after all of her efforts to mold him into a human being failed spectacularly.

As well, his half-sister Ariadne had treated him as kindly as she did everyone, although for her it was not because she was in denial. Naively, she would ask him why he never wished to play with the other children, and only rarely with her. _Are you shy, Brother?_

She was so small, like a normal child should be, and though Asterius was only a few years her elder his hand dwarfed hers when she took it so gently. He remembered not being able to find the words to answer her.

When he declined to explain and waved her away, she brought him gifts from the outdoors. She helped him to cultivate a collection of pretty stones and wove him garlands of flowers, the only crown he would ever wear. Once, she brought him a cat that had followed her home; the next day, Asterius told her it escaped, for he did not have the heart to explain that he was too fearsome to care for such a delicate creature.

Ariadne learned that for herself a few months later, when she was rather dainty even after eight years of life, and her beast of a brother was larger than any preteen ought to be. She sat on his lap, drifting off to sleep, and then she was tipping, falling—and then Asterius reached for her and she was screaming. He heard a sickening crack, and could almost feel her bones break beneath his hand—and his heart along with them.

The servants arrived to find them both crying, but they had no sympathy for the Minotaur, and though nobody ever admitted as much he suspected that night was the night that Minos first called upon Daedelus to begin the labyrinth’s construction. It was the last time that he saw Ariadne’s sweet face, and the last moment of his life he thought that he might have a friend.

Asterius knew then that despite his mother’s reassurance, he was only play-acting as a boy, and so when his prison was complete, he accepted his fate graciously. By then, they had ringed his nose to lead him, but it proved unnecessary.

There was a tragedy, too, he thought as the heavy door was shut behind him, in how many had to suffer for his sake. All of them were more deserving than he. Each man that had built this maze with his own hands could have found a more meaningful use of their time. Every being that would die to feed him (at that time, he’d expected they’d be goats, or—in another bit of irony—cows) might have helped a man to live rather than a monster. Most of all, his family suffered for him, and they had done all that they could until the bitter end.

He often wondered how they fared in his absence. Minos, who had not for a moment seen Asterius as a son, must have been glad. But Pasiphaë had wept as she said her goodbyes, and held him close until she’d been forced to let go—a touching parting, and bittersweet. Of course, Ariadne had been prevented from seeing hide and hair of him after he’d hurt her. He did not even know the nature of her injury, or how she fared now.

No doubt they were better off without him, now free to live in the light as he—the sins of his family made flesh—was left concealed in the darkness. Free to forget him so long as they made the sacrifices they had decided were appropriate.

Asterius missed them at first, but eventually it gave way to pity. No doubt each of them had lain awake so many nights, desperately trying to find a way to discard their burden—and yet, did they now think of him, wondering if what they had done was for the best? If there had been a way to speak to them, he would have told them a thousand times over that it was.

He did not wish to think at all of the bull that must have been his true father, nor the details of how such a union might have taken place. Whatever the reasons for his mother’s moment of weakness, she was a good woman. He could bear the burden of her sins, if that was what it took for her to be happy.

And so he accepted his fate: to wander, and to wait for death. It would be so easy for those outside the labyrinth to simply not send him meals any longer, and there would be nothing that he could do about it. Yet it continued, prolonging his life time and time again.

Each day, fed or not, he wandered. There was little else to do when imprisoned like this. A man might have wanted other things to occupy his time—scrolls to read, perhaps or games to play, if only against himself. (In all things, Asterius was his only rival, so why not in dice as well?) A monster didn’t deserve such things. The labyrinth’s walls were high, the ceiling covered, and the hallways narrowed, so time was monotonous, and it was impossible to tell day from night, month from month. And still, to pace in this never-ending maze was his only option to distract himself from the emptiness that grew deep within his belly, so he continued.

What might it be like to no longer be consumed by this senseless hunger? It was impossible to know, for like all creatures on this earth Asterius needed to eat. He’d never developed a _taste_ for flesh, but from deep within him came a _need_ for it—odd, for his bovine half ought to have been a herbivore and his human half certainly shouldn’t have longed for raw meat. Yet as a child he found himself compelled to catch and consume rodents, hiding himself away in his room to feast on their blood and suck out their marrow—then birds, then farm animals, then anything at all. And still, nothing could sate this unnatural lust for flesh.

He had never looked upon one of his own—human being or cow—and craved them, for even a monster had some sense of right and wrong. If only those who fed him realized that it would have been better to leave him in the labyrinth with only salads and allow him to wither away. The walls could be made weaker then. He wouldn’t have the energy to break free from the labyrinth even if he wished to; he barely had energy to spare as it was.

He came to wonder if he even _could_ die of hunger, and even that question had no clear answer. Indeed, fourteen humans shouldn’t have been enough to feed him for years any more than fourteen turkeys could feed a man for as long. His meals energized him, but it very well may have been that he was kept alive regardless of what he consumed, another cruel trick of the gods.

If only they would instead deliver him from this limbo: neither satiated nor hungry; neither alive nor deceased. Had Minos thought him so difficult to kill? Had the gods cursed Asterius to never die of the hunger he felt gnawing at him even once he was fed? Was there, in fact, no escape at all, no delivery from this torment? Man could easily end the life of man, and even more easily the life of a bull, so why should a bull-man be different? Asterius might bellow or groan when it happened, but he wouldn’t resist it.

In all of this, Asterius longed for humanity almost as much as he did for death, and through it all he did all he could think of to retain some illusion of being a man: reciting simple poems he had learned as a boy, reminiscing on what it once felt to know sea, sky, land—if only through his windows. Asking himself questions, and then answering them, so that he might recall how to speak if anybody ever saw fit to converse with him.

 _How are you?_ I am well, thank you, and how are your crops faring?

 _Is your son growing up well, or is he still sickly? I’ve never met him, still._ Ah, Asterius is a strong boy, a unique boy. It’s best he rest indoors for now, away from the wide, loud world.

 _Do you think, perchance, we might be redeemed when we die?_ I have no faith in the gods to do what is right or fair, and so death must be about as fair as life. I, myself, hope that death will be a delivery from my sins.

Still, retaining language did little to retain his humanity, for what good was being able to speak with humans if they knew better than to listen?

The people outside, the ones who fed him each year, must have assumed that in all his wandering he never found the door. If he had, he should have lingered there, waiting for his chance to escape. But Asterius did not wish to see the outside world, much less leave his prison, for there was nothing good to be found there. And when the youths—the sacrifices, _his_ sacrifices—entered, he’d prefer not to hear their wailing, their begging. He chose instead not to see them atl all, to lurk in shadows beyond so many twists and turns.

Some, he assumed, quietly accepted their fates. Others tried to escape; he heard them plan, scheme, and even beg the gods for aid. Still others ended their own lives, and Asterius found them dead with daggers in their hands or vials of poison on the floor. Enough for themselves, but never enough for the Minotaur to join them.

They all died eventually, from starvation if not from suicide, but never by Asterius’ hand. He was the truest kind of monster, one who was unable to even end his victims’ suffering quickly. Their corpses, devoured head-first so that he wouldn’t have to gaze on their faces for long, were crunchy, meaty, and bitter. He hoped each of them found solace in Elysium, rewarded for their bravery with eternal paradise.

Asterius had no way of knowing it when he reached his last year alive. He had lost track of the time; each cycle of senseless deaths had blended together. Distantly, he heard the door of the labyrinth open—and then, he waited. But by the by, he came across something, before he discovered any of the youths.

A golden thread lay on the floor, winding through the hallways. Asterius saw no beginning or end, though it must have had one of each, and though he was inclined to follow it he resisted the urge. It must have belonged to one of the sacrifices, likely still clinging onto life, and Asterius preferred not to find them. He would instead ignore the thread, and that proved to be his undoing.

He was lumbering through one of his prison’s endless hallways when everything came together and allowed him to see a metaphorical light at the end of his very literal tunnel.

“Halt, fiend!” rang out a voice as he turned the corner to see the man attached to the thread. Any conversation now would have sounded more lovely than the finest music, but the voice was more than just lovely. It was more passionate in its tone than any he had ever heard, and more firm.

And louder. The young man standing before him was shouting far more than needed, considering their proximity.

Not especially appreciating being called a fiend but also unable to disagree, Asterius only snorted. The youth faintly gulped at the sound, but held firm—an impressive display of courage. Perhaps he was frozen in place, or perhaps he was kind enough to allow Asterius a moment to observe his opponent, but either way Asterius took advantage of the pause.

The boy must have been one of the intended sacrifices: he was about the right age, and his athletic form indicated that he must have been full of strength and vigor. Asterius could be no proper judge of beauty, but he thought he might be called handsome with his long blond tresses and tan skin. Unlike the others, he did not run; instead, he brandished a blade.

The golden thread trailed behind him, the rest of it wound around his wrist—a way of navigation, then. How very clever of him. And if he meant to find his way back out, the youth did not intend to die here.

His gaze met Asterius’, eyes kind and true meeting those of a monster.

And then—”Have at you!”—the youth charged, swinging his blade.

Though he was the one being attacked, Asterius found himself thinking that it was true courage to so boldly attack a beast more than twice one’s size. On reflex he blocked the sword swing with his arm, wincing as the blade broke his flesh. Immediately he could feel the unfamiliar warmth of his own blood dripping down his flesh. It seemed appropriate: like a wild animal caught in a trap, he could be made to bleed out.

He might have crushed the youth easily, might have fought back and seen victory based on his sheer size and strength, had he been prepared for battle. But each of his moves felt sluggish, and it occurred to Asterius then that though he required little energy to roam the halls, it would take much more to fight with the whole of his strength. He’d not yet encountered any of this year’s corpses, so he hadn’t eaten in nearly a year. Instead of fighting, he merely deflected the blows, allowing each of them to decorate his body with pain and the darkest red.

“Take that, beast! And that!” the boy yelled with each attack. He was skilled with his blade, as best as Asterius could tell, and seemed to have just about an endless reserve of energy.

If he only stood here, Asterius thought, and took each blow, he would fall soon enough. The boy was clearly bound and determined to end his life—why else would he have brought a sword here, when none of the other sacrifices had?—and he deserved to see victory. He’d be thought of as a hero, no doubt. It would be well-deserved, for what could be more heroic than ending the life of a being such as he, one who lived only to destroy?

And then, a momentary reprise: the blows ceased.

Again, their eyes met. The youth’s held determination and anger, and Asterius supposed that his own eyes held no human emotion at all. The brave young man did not sheathe his sword, but instead pointed it at the Minotaur, just under his chin. It might have been intimidating if Asterius had been on his knees, or if he hadn’t been so much larger than the youth, but as it was he couldn't help but chuckle. Even that must have been beastly, for the youth winced as though it had been a growl.

But he recovered quickly, and spoke with resolve as his voice barely wavered. “Why don’t you fight me?” he asked. “What sort of beast are you, that you won’t even engage me in combat? Are you so confident in your skills that you laugh at me thus, and refuse to even honor me by trading blows?”

Asterius had neither confidence nor honor, though he didn’t bother to explain as much. Rather, he lacked both the energy and the willpower to fight, and he knew that the youth standing before him deserved to leave with his life far more than Asterius did with his own. And so he could not find it in himself to fight back, to prolong a battle that was already lost and risk hurting the youth. When the boy returned home to be lauded as a hero, he’d no doubt prefer to have his strong arms, swift legs, and splendid face intact.

“But of course you cannot speak,” continued the youth, evidently content to carry an entire conversation on his own. There was no reason to stop him, nor to correct his false assumption. “The bull half of you is your head, and bulls can do little more than charge and bray. Do you even understand me? Can you even tell that you might be in danger?”

Still, Asterius said nothing. The youth was correct, for the most part. A monster should not attempt to court conversation with man, even if he could form mockeries of man’s language. He wondered if he might have taken pity on him if he knew his story. If things would be different if the youth realized that Asterius had been born between worlds, neither beast nor man and unable to join the worlds of either.

If he would, it would be pity that was undesired and undeserved.

Sweat beaded on the youth’s brow, and his sword hand trembled, though whether it was with fear or the anticipation of a hunter’s next kill, Asterius couldn’t say. Either way, the path before them seemed clear. “Either way, I see no reason to have mercy on the likes of—”

And then the boy, golden-haired and golden-hearted, was rendered speechless as Asterius took a knee.

His heart heavy with the weight of death and carnage, Asterius chose not to resist his fate. The youth could have the glory he deserved without so much of a fight—though he had to wonder if he might lie about the difficulty of his victory. It didn’t make much of a story to say that your opponent had quietly accepted his death.

Asterius had dreamed often of death, but never of dying. Later, he would remember no pain, only relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Like most fans of this ship, I have a lot of questions and a lot of thoughts about how Theseus got Asterius into Elysium. This fic addresses some of them!
> 
> A giant thank you to all of my friends on Discord for letting me bounce ideas off of you and, especially to [inkhorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkhorn/pseuds/inkhorn) for the betaing this chapter
> 
> I'm really interested in the idea of why the whole Labyrinth thing is set up the way that it is, both in Hades canon and the original myth. I'm personally fond of the idea of Asterius as a gentle, tragic character thrust into an unfair situation, being placated and fed in a way that he never would have asked for, and I think it fits the overall lighthearted tone of Theseus and Asterius' boss battles. The use of a labyrinth instead of a traditional prison is intriguing, and I feel like it implies a certain gentleness in the Minotaur, like if he's given a maze to wander he'll search fruitlessly for the exit instead of trying to break out.
> 
> I'm also inclined toward believing that Asterius doesn't _like_ eating humans (this will come up again later!) both because I like the thought of him doing Cow Things like eating some nice grass, and because for all his love of fighting to the death, Asterius seems distinctly not bloodthirsty. He seems to enjoy the sport of it, and I think of Minos let him just be a person, he'd have been an outstanding athlete! There's also the fact that bulls need a _lot_ of calories, and the occasional meal of a few humans really shouldn't be enough for even a half-bull, which leads me to an interpretation where the whole "eating people" thing is just bullshit from either Minos thinking that monster=eats people or maybe a god telling him that he needs to make sacrifices to the Minotaur as penance for the Minotaur... happening.
> 
> One of my favorite things about Theseus (there are a lot) is that he's full of shit, and I choose to believe that he's full of shit about his version of the labyrinth story, too. Also taking full advantage of the fact that Asterius canonically says he could have kicked Theseus' ass if he wasn't hungry.
> 
> Anyway! This is the saddest chapter, because Asterius makes me sad, and probably the most introspective chapter, because Asterius has nobody to talk to. (Thankfully, Theseus never shuts up.)


	2. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Theseus struggles with feelings of inadequacy. That his slaying of the Minotaur was not the heroic act others believe it to be gnaws at him through his life, and he seeks answers he will not find until much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I changed the title YES I'm indecisive don't worry about it. ♡
> 
> This chapter and the next might make more sense if you're familiar with Theseus in mythology. I mostly looked at [Plutarch's _Life of Thesesus_](http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Plutarch/Lives/Theseus*.html) for reference here.

He had been born into greatness and was destined for glory—that much, Theseus knew well. His mother had told him as much since his birth: he, son of god and king both, possessed a capacity for greatness that few others could even dream of. Dumb luck, all of it, but that was something he could never say out loud. If this was the burden that was to be placed on his shoulders, his only choice was to act in the way that was expected of him: bravely, swiftly, nobly.

He knew, too, that even the lucky men who the Fates may have held in their favor could not rest. Though the path to glory was laid out for him, it was he who would have to walk it. It was a nerve-wracking prospect, to be sure, but in order to reach the greatness he was meant for, Theseus had to take the bull by the horns. So to speak.

He needed to become the sort of man who would gladly commit himself to slaying the Minotaur, and so that was what he did. The creature was three times the size of a man, people said, and ten times as strong. It would be dangerous, even foolish, to challenge him. Best to lie low and hope your children were not chosen as feed.

The impossibility was the draw of it. Heroes did not do only what was easy; kings did not decline challenges simply because there was no clear route to success. Theseus would be the first—and the last—human to slay a bull-man, and thus he would secure his place among the greatest heroes the world had seen. From then on, there would no longer be reason to have any doubts that he did indeed deserve all that he would gain.

Theseus’ confidence grew as those around him began to support him. He is a prince after all, they said; he was sent to us by Poseidon himself to undo the same god’s greatest mistake. His heart swelled with each word of support, though in truth a part of him wondered if what everyone believed about his birth was true.

(He had been told, always, that he was divine; but the gods did not falter, did not doubt their own strength. Theseus did both, in secret. He would have to learn the mercilessness of the sea in order to be worthy of the rumors that already surrounded him.)

But even as Theseus prepared to enter the labyrinth, there were also those who questioned him, even discouraged him.

Ariadne was worst of all. A princess of Crete and the half-sister of the Minotaur himself, she had attached herself to him almost immediately when he arrived there. The group of sacrifices was allowed a few days’ rest before their condemnation to the labyrinth, and was free to use this time for joy and revelry. For Theseus, there was no time for that, and instead he went to Ariadne for much-needed insight.

She offered her aid freely, a welcome show of solidarity from a beautiful girl. And yet again and again, she asked him if he truly thought that he ought to put himself in such danger. Surely, she said, he had some choice in the matter.

But he had no choice. If he were to act like a coward now, he ought to be exiled for his shameful behavior. Even worse than ignoring a problem like the Minotaur would be to commit to its solving, only to later flee.

“It would be better,” she pleaded, “if you lived. You could go back home and rule. You could take me with you!”

“It’s because of my status that I must put myself at risk,” he told her as he gazed at the moon shining through her window. It was the last night the group of sacrifices was allowed to see the moonlight, and the others were making themselves joyous with wine, desperate to forget what was to become of them. “If I cannot stand among my people and face our mutual enemies alongside them, who would I be to reign as a king and order them to war?”

She was sitting beside him on his bed and as he spoke she slipped one of her hands into his. With the other, she stroked his face, her touch light as a feather. It must have been meant to be soothing, but the passion in Theseus’ heart could not be quelled. “You’re right, of course,” she said, “I know that your courage is like no one else’s. And yet...”

“You worry, even though you realize it is not necessary.” Women could be sentimental like that sometimes.

“He is half— no, he is my brother. I know him well, better than anyone except our mother.”

It wasn’t the first time that she had referred to the Minotaur as family, and Theseus was inclined to wonder if she discouraged him for the monster’s sake as much as for his own. To compare him to such a creature—Ariadne truly was a fool. Even the lowest of men was more worthy of life than a bloodthirsty beast.

“After my victory, I may one day come to apologize for breaking your heart, but only because he is your kin. I will never regret the death of a monster, or a murderer. Such an abomination cannot be allowed to live, nor to devour our most promising youth again and again with no respite.”

Ariadne shook her head. “You misunderstand me. His life ended years ago, when even Mother realized he could not safely live among us. Did I tell you of the day when I saw him last?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “He was holding me on his lap, even though he had been told not to. I asked him for it, and he could never deny my wishes. But before I knew it, I had fallen asleep, and he was hurting me as I slept. I don't remember it, but Father told me later that he had taken my arm in his hand and was twisting it behind my back, hoping to rip it off and snack on it. From then on, I was forbidden from seeing him—and I didn’t want to.”

“A sordid tale, dear Ariadne, but not an unexpected one.”

“I tell it to you so that you feel no need to apologize. It’s better that his life be ended by your hands than another man’s. This way he can be part of your tale of glory, and be remembered in that way. May the poets sing one day of the both of you, together.”

“Monster and man, side by side?” Doubtful, Theseus clicked his tongue. “Just as likely the name ‘Minotaur’ will be lost to eternity.”

“You might be surprised. A great beast, and a great king—and both sons of Poseidon, in their own way.”

“A bold statement indeed to assert that your brother and I have something in common.”

“I’m only saying that it will make for an enrapturing tale. I’ll have to tell my children about it.” A demure smile crossed her face. “And yours.”

If there was any subtext to be found in her words, it was beyond Theseus; victory was his first love, and glory his second. “Is that so? In that case, feel free to tell them how you assisted me, and I will do the same with my own protegees.”

“I will, but— Theseus, please take these words to heart just the same as the others. The Minotaur is no man, not any longer. I knew him when he was young, the same as any other young man except for his deformity, and I watched him slowly corrupted by his nature, from the inside out.”

“From all that you’ve told me, he was never a boy. A calf, perhaps.”

“Believe what you want, but it’s not something I’d lie about. I’m not sure what caused such a change, but he had a gentle soul once. Please, pity him, but do not spare him. Perhaps in the depths of Hades he will find himself once again.”

“Are those the words of a loving sister?”

“They are the words of a woman who cares for you above anyone else, even over her own flesh and blood. Take heed of them, and hold them close when we are parted, so that we may soon be safely reunited.”

And so Theseus pursued his destiny with a sword in his right hand and thread in his left, the former a gift from his father and the latter from Ariadne. But even as his heart swelled with pride and his body held fast with courage, the long to Knossos and the labyrinth, a slow trek by foot, did dampen his enthusiasm somewhat. As the other thirteen wept and prayed and bemoaned their fate, Theseus did what he could to make the time go faster, anxious to finally prove himself a hero.

The best he could do was ponder his upcoming victory. Hunting had always caused a certain thrill to rise from deep within him, and those animals often did little to put up a fight. How much more rewarding must it be to slay a monster, a creature that was born as an abomination and existed only to kill?

As he savored the image in his mind—the Minotaur’s roar of anguish as he plunged his blade into its heart, the spilling of its lifeblood, the sharp scent of iron, if the creature even bled red—he thought, too, of Ariadne. She could say her piece about how the monster was once a boy, but it was impossible to imagine it. Perhaps she had been blind to his true nature until it was revealed to her, but surely a monster was born a monster, and that was that.

His focus—his obsession—was not on her, and never had been. Theseus longed for the Minotaur, and only him. He ached to be the creature’s undoing, to overtake him completely and seize the glory that he was owed. From there, the Minotaur could rot in the depths of Erebus for all he cared. It would be a fitting end.

The other youths to be slain spoke with him sometimes, but he was able to find little common ground with them. They hoped that Theseus might be their savior, yet seemed to have little confidence in him, and most seemed to have already accepted their deaths. It was the difference between a commoner and a king: one quietly accepted his fate, whatever it may be, while the other saw his life as a clay to mold as he saw fit. And there was nothing wrong with that; a king needed subjects.

By the time they reached the labyrinth, Theseus’ blood boiled with the urge to rent, to kill. It was as though Ares himself had empowered his blade and was urging him onward. What was to come would no doubt be remembered among the greatest battles Greece would ever see. Theseus’ only regret was that it was to take place in the shadows.

As the youths were finally led to the labyrinth’s entrance, a door hidden well in thick stone walls, he could think of nothing beyond his own need to win. Failure was simply not an option, when it would only lead to shame, then death. Perhaps the Minotaur would overpower him in a single blow from behind, and then he would wind up dying as a coward—but a coward that had not even realized he was at death’s door.

No! He could not let such fears overtake him.

The others were still begging and weeping, probably. Someone or another wished him luck, perhaps. But none of that mattered to the single-minded prince, so lost as he was in his own thoughts.

The halls seemed endless. The walk, eternal. When he told the story later he would say it took days, weeks—though in truth, he didn’t know for certain. He would say that the others joined him, already seeing him as their king and protector. That they fell away gradually, lacking the prince’s vigor and spirit. Only Theseus held firm, his will unbroken even when he was alone, still clinging tight to Ariadne’s yarn. He’d always been called stubborn; now, this stubbornness proved itself to be a gift.

The Minotaur only revealed himself when Theseus was beginning to lose heart, and nearly hungry enough to eat a human himself. It was through sound first: though Theseus had not heard it before that moment, the sound of the beast lumbering through the halls was unmistakable. It was less of a gallop than Theseus had expected, and more of a steady thumping, rather unlike a bull but very much like the footsteps of a much larger man.

Not that Theseus was small, mind. He was very average in height.

There were stories about the Minotaur, of course, tales that had been whispered between the youths on their journey here even though nobody who had met him in recent years had lived to tell the tale. But none had prepared Theseus for the sight of him as he came into view, his figure larger and broader than Theseus had ever imagined. The image he’d carried in his mind as he imagined his coming victory had always included the monster as a shadowy figure, or else an unholy amalgamation of fur and flesh, claws and teeth.

Instead, the being he saw before him bore surprising similarity to a human. The arms, legs, and torso were formed almost identically to Theseus’ own, only larger and—it appeared—covered in a layer of filthy fur. The head was recognizable enough as well: identical to any farmer’s prized bull, pierced nose and all. The overall effect was odd to be sure, but not as unsettling as expected, and the Minotaur had even made a crude attempt at modesty by tying a ragged cloth around his waist and shoulder.

In a warrior’s rage, Theseus said his piece, telling the Minotaur of all his misdeeds, but the creature did not flinch. Instead, he let out a fearsome bray, no doubt unable to understand Theseus’ words but gladly accepting the spirit of the challenge.

Before the Minotaur could be allowed a chance to strike the first blow, Theseus charged, sword swinging in a series of quick, practiced arcs. His blade found itself hitting skin that was thicker than the flesh of any animal he’d ended the life of before, but not unyielding, and soon enough he was able to mar the monster’s arms and torso with cuts. The thrill of battle surged within him, and he felt no fear, only excitement and satisfaction as each attack struck true.

He found himself thinking that it must have been a long time since anyone had put up a fight against the Minotaur, maybe since he had first been forced into this maze. Might it be that he too felt the bliss of battle, the power of a warrior’s spirit? Even a creature such as he—nay _especially_ a creature such as he!—ought to be able to find satisfaction in such a legendary clash!

Or so Theseus thought at first, until he realized that his blows were only being deflected, not returned. Why, the Minotaur was barely putting up a fight at all! Did he not find Theseus a worthy opponent? Did he doubt the prince’s power so much that he chose not to dignify him with a single blow in return?

Theseus paused for a moment. Could there be more to it than that? Motivations that he was yet unable to comprehend?

But that was foolish talk, and to attempt to understand such an unholy creature was a fool’s errand! Theseus was stronger than the Minotaur, and no doubt wiser as well. He gave the beast too much credit. More likely he was even more stupid than a typical bull, lower than even the members of the natural animal kingdom. In that way, perhaps Theseus was simply drawing a conclusion to his misery, ending the empty life of a creature who cared for nothing but death and destruction.

And end the life he did, though the conclusion to the battle was not half as epic as Theseus had envisioned. He spoke to the Minotaur, and it did not reply; instead, the creature surrendered, almost meekly. Theseus took the opportunity, naturally, for the sake of his others as well as himself. But there would be no satisfaction as he plunged the blade through fur, skin, tendon, muscle—for there was no glory in an unfair right.

Instead, Theseus dropped his blade to the ground, placing himself and the unarmed creature on equal footing. To slay him in this way would bring far more satisfaction, and though he supposed that the Minotaur himself was incapable of understanding the difference, perhaps the beast would realize in his own way that he was being allowed the greatest of honors: to be pitted against Theseus and allowed a fighting chance.

Theseus found himself thinking as the bull breathed its last that it was akin to a ritual killing, the ultimate sacrifice to the gods: a vital act, but not a glorious one. 'Twas a fitting and ironic end, given the Minotaur’s own demand for sacrifices! Once again, Theseus had been chosen by the gods and graciously received their blessings. That was the only explanation for such a definitive win.

Yet something about it, something that he could not name, felt hollow.

He had bested monsters several times before and did so several times more, but no victory stood out to him half as much as that against the Minotaur. Though it was the fight that brought him the most glory, this in and of itself was not the reason he could not forget.

Soon after the fight, he left Ariadne. _Abandoned_ her, she cried out, her weeping figure growing smaller as Theseus sailed away. He could not help it; she looked too much like _him_. She reminded Theseus of the Minotaur’s humanity, and of his heritage. If he allowed her to stay with him it would soon be Theseus who wept.

The Minotaur was gone. Ariadne was gone. Soon after, his father was gone, dead by his own hand after such a simple act as forgetting to switch the ship’s sails.

He was not very good at keeping people, it seemed.

Still, a king could not falter, and Theseus was determined to be a good king.

He had always dreamed vividly, whether they were dreams of quests, glories, or lovemaking. From the very night after the Minotaur fell, he began to dream of him, too, and the night-visions only became more frequent as time marched forward. He dreamed of the creature’s broad form and imposing presence, and of the sorrow in his bovine eyes, more human than he had thought the creature capable of.

Some nights it happened just as they had in life, and Theseus stood victorious over the beast as he slowly bled out, staining the dirty ground with red. Other nights, it was the Minotaur’s win, and even as life faded from him, even as he began to feel the surprisingly dull ache of the monsters’ teeth tearing into his flesh, dream-Theseus felt an odd sense of satisfaction.

He was inclined to see it as some sort of divine message, just as he had been called to do his labors. At first it seemed simple: if he killed the Minotaur in his dreams, the day would go well; if not, it would not.

But with each of his dreams, it became clear that there was something more to it, something unnamable and frustrating. Even his subconscious was unsatisfied.

In time he made a habit of wearing a bull-head crest of his own design upon his lapel. To the nation, it was a reminder of the reason he was their king, and a warning to never repeat Minos’ mistake of dishonoring the gods. To Theseus, it stood for something quite different: a question that would haunt him until he found the answer, so many years later.

It was the memory of the Minotaur’s _being_ that plagued him through these nights: his slumped posture, his apparently quiet nature, his willingness to be sacrificed just as he had been sacrificed to. The look in his eyes as he fell to Theseus’ blows, eyes that had one seemed fierce and beady now, in Theseus’ memory, only reflecting a melancholy that he had assumed the creature was not capable of feeling.

Why should such a beast not put up any fight? Even a steer led to slaughter would cry out, whip his head, gnash his teeth—anything at all to show his displeasure even as he was powerless to stop his life from being taken from him. The Minotaur could have done so much more than that, and yet he declined, quietly taking a knee like a man who knew his death was inevitable and meant to accept it with whatever honor he was capable of.

Theseus hated the thought of it, just as he would hate to sentence an innocent man to be hanged. His knowledge was vast, and his judgement sound, and yet… and yet…!

He could not speak of it. Not to any of his wives or lovers, not to his advisors, not even to the gods themselves. A king should not doubt his decisions, least of all his decision to end the life of one in order to save the lives of many.

He told another story instead, one that was not his own truth: an impassioned fight between noble man and hideous beast. In this story the young man had no doubts, nor any reason for doubting, and fought spectacularly, vying for his life in the dark depths of the labyrinth. The Minotaur he described was on a bloodthirsty rampage, hungry and eager to make Theseus his next meal. Theseus spoke of the way his blood boiled and his sword called out for justice as the Minotaur tried to claim his next victim, and how he skillfully deflected each of the Minotaur’s many attacks and steeled his ears to the Minotaur’s deafening cries.

(“He must have hurt them a bit,” Theseus would say, bouncing Acamas on his knee, “and that’s why I can’t always hear when you call me.”

“Mother says you’re just ignoring us,” his son would respond, pouting.)

Theseus had no intention of dwelling on his regrets. A king must make his decisions with confidence, and carry them out with a firm hand. This was what he taught himself as he ruled; anything less would quickly erode his citizens’ faith in him, and quickly reveal to them that he was not such a great man after all, only a man who had been lucky enough to be born to noble parents and brave enough to kill a creature that was already asking to die.

Yet there was a feeling gnawing from deep within him telling him that he was _wrong_. The Minotaur was the son of a queen, just as much as Theseus was, and their stories had been intertwined—and yet Theseus gained the glory he was destined for, while the Minotaur was slaughtered.

With every telling of the tale, the stakes grew higher, Theseus himself grew nobler, and each victory became more epic than the last. Soon, all of Greece knew the story, and knew that the Minotaur was Theseus’ greatest foe of all.

The story he did not tell was this: that there was more to the monster than he could have ever learned and understood during their brief meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I can stick to a twice a week upload schedule, but I initially wrote these first two chapters as one until it got too long, so I feel like I should post them relatively close together.
> 
> A lot of this was written months ago, and underwent some major revisions as Cyrus Nemati talked more about the way he played Theseus and specifically, his insecurities. Initially my read on Theseus was that he was a character who was a brash asshole even when he was young, but now I think of him as a brash asshole who acts that way in order to avoid facing his own self-hatred. In canon, Theseus has a particularly negative opinion of his younger self, which to me says that once he reflected on it, he realized how many mistakes he made. He has a very strong sense of justice, which we see in the way he treats Zag, who he thinks is a daemon, and I think he can turn that same strict eye upon his younger self as well. All of that is to say that I think Theseus might have become aware of the injustices in Asterius' life, but it took him until he died before he was able to do something about it.
> 
> (One AU that intrigues me is Theseus taking Asterius out of the labyrinth without killing him, and how they might have become companions in life, but that's for another time.)
> 
> In mythology Theseus is Poseidon's son, kind of, but in Hades canon Poseidon denies it. The important thing for me is that Theseus _says_ he is, because he _wants_ to believe it.
> 
> I love Ariadne! But Theseus is so mean to her! I think he struggles with the fact that she helped him kill Asterius, and then presumably he never got to talk to her after he realized Asterius was an okay guy. So in Hades canon, he thinks she hates Asterius, and presumably him... she probably thinks that he never saw the humanity in Asterius that she might have recognized... it's a mess. Maybe one day I'll write about them reconciling.
> 
> Theseus is a good guy, but he struggles with how to express negative emotions in a healthy way. (See: his temper tantrum over Asterius getting along with Zagreus.) I tried to express that in my take on young Theseus as well, when he's faced with a lot of doubt and confusion and deals with it by trying to ignore them, kicking Ariadne off of the boat, pretending he thinks he's the shit even though he's not actually proud of what he did, and then just completely failing at lying to himself and stressing about the bull-man he killed for the rest of his life.
> 
> If you haven't taken a close look at young Theseus' portrait, yes, he is wearing a bull-head crest on his cape. There's no heterosexual explanation for it.


	3. Unexpected Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You talk too much,” the Minotaur said.
> 
> Theseus crossed his arms. “Perhaps you should talk more!”

Theseus deserved nothing less than a dignified death, followed by a majestic funeral. The people would weep for him, and he would be remembered forever as a man who united them, who brought peace and prosperity to their city, who was gentle toward those in need and harsh with punishment that was deserved

Though later Theseus would find that his reputation had been preserved, his death itself was not half as glorious as he’d hoped. And it was all the fault of that damned Lycomedes!

Theseus died thus: he had just returned from a long journey (the details of which he opted not to disclose), when he noticed that the other king had staked his claim on Theseus’ land. His approach and request for them to be returned were quite amicable indeed, and at first it appeared that Lycomedes would be happy to negotiate politely. Yet in the midst of their passionate discussion, after both of them had eaten their fill of a feast and were quite tipsy with the finest of wines, Theseus found himself rather close to the edge of a cliff.

And then he found himself tumbling down that cliff into the water below, hitting his head quite solidly on a rock, and never managing to come up for air.

The scoundrel! The cur! The absolute dastard! Theseus cursed his name with his final breath.

(An observer might have said that Lycomedes was nowhere near Theseus, that he had no reason to so crudely assault him and push him to his death. Why, said observer might have even said that Theseus, joyous with drink, may not have had a solid footing on the rocks and _slipped_ through nobody’s fault but his own. Such an observer would, of course, be speaking vicious lies!)

Though his accomplishments in battle were many, Theseus had always expected it would be the peaceful Thanatos who would carry him away in his last moments—though he’d hoped the time would come later, when he was peacefully in bed, rather than in such a humiliating fashion. At the very least it _was_ Thanatos who descended upon him at the moment his life ended.

Thanatos’ features were sharp, and his presence imposing, but as he looked down on Theseus, Theseus saw an ethereal beauty in him. His haunting gaze must have struck fear into the hearts of so many men before him, and Theseus himself felt compelled to follow him without objection. There were tales of men who were so insistent on defying Death that they would try to resist even him, but Theseus had no such intention—not before, and certainly not now, when faced with such a beauty.

Wordlessly, Death reached for him, and Theseus took his hand without hesitation.

And so Theseus’ death came sooner than he would have liked, and under circumstances that he may not have preferred, but so be it! It was only the end if Theseus thought of it as such, but to die could also be a new beginning.

It was only in the emptiness of the afterlife that Asterius was finally able to find peace.

In life, humans allowed him all that they thought he desired: sacrifice, carnage, and the freshest of meat. Yet it was Erebus, an endless limbo, that was able to provide what he had truly wished for. Asterius was well accustomed to nothingness, and this was a nothingness with no beginning, no end. No hunger, and no feeding.

He had waited in Erebus for some time, ever since his soul arrived in Hades. It was not meant to be the final resting place of any man or beast, but merely a waiting-place. His soul would be judged, and he would be condemned to the deepest pits of the underworld.

This was the intention. In reality, there seemed to be no effort made to sentence or even acknowledge him. Other souls came and went; the Bull of Minos, it seemed, was simply not a priority. He saw no reason to object to it. Someday he’d be tortured eternally, and so it did not matter if that eternity started today or tomorrow.

It was better than he deserved to be granted familiar solitude and welcome boredom, but he welcomed it. All Asterius needed to do was _be_ ; he could harm nobody here.

There were shades shaped like humans mulling about here and there, but Asterius steered clear of them, instead dwelling among the dead that were shaped like monsters. Many took forms he could barely recognize. It had been a surprise at first—was the living world really so full of mindless gluttons and legless sorcerers and faceless crystals?—but in time he came to realize that their forms reflected who they had been in life.

It was a punishment of sorts. Those who had done wrong in life could live eternally as the embodiment of all of their evils: the gluttons mindlessly seeking pleasure that they would not find here, the destructive taking forms that they could use to destroy. Only those who had lived as humans ought to in life had earned a human form in death.

It was proper that the form that Asterius found himself in was identical to that which he’d had when he lived and breathed: tall, clumsy, brutish. Just as much bull as he was human. It suited him well; this body matched his crimes perfectly. He hadn’t needed to change at all for it to be clear what sort of beast he was.

What did come as a surprise was that he could find no kinship among the other odd creatures. They interacted with each other sometimes, though never as friends, and yet none seemed particularly interested in Asterius. At first, he tried to speak to them, until it became apparent that either none could communicate properly, or none cared to do it. Even in Erebus, among monsters, Asterius found himself an outsider.

His mother had told him that, in his own way, he was a child of the gods. He was special, she said, and he had to be hidden from the world because most people simply couldn’t understand that. He hadn’t believed it, and neither had she.

People ate, Asterius thought, and they killed to do it. Killed cows, even. In that way, he had been no different from his kin. But humans ate only creatures that were below them, and that was something that Asterius could not say of himself. In that way had been the one to turn himself into a monster; it was the fault of no other.

Asterius reminded himself of this constantly, not because he wished to but it was impossible to forget. He could not forget dark passageways, endless stone walls, screams of fear. He could not forget the relief of feeding, nor the hatred for himself that grew inside of him with each bite.

He didn’t befriend the monsters around him, but Asterius sometimes spoke to them still. More often, he spoke to himself, just as he had when he was alive. Better to not lose his words, in case another unlucky bull-man came along and needed kinship. Unlikely as it seemed, it was something to hold onto.

In this limbo, there was no way to mark the passage of time, and no way to predict when his monotonous afterlife would be changed forever. The one who offered him kinship, he would come to learn, was no bull-man at all.

Any man who was even half as faithful to the gods as Theseus learned about how the underworld functioned, and most could make a good prediction as to where they would be placed when they arrived. For a man of Theseus’ prowess and his deeds, there was no question where he belonged: he would naturally be sent nowhere other than the magnificent paradise of champions, the fields of Elysium!

The problem was thus: to have one’s soul delivered, one had to pay the boatman Charon. To pay the boatman, one must have coin. And to have coin, one’s body must be put to rest with it. It was good that Theseus knew all of this, because Charon had not offered an explanation when Theseus’ soul reached him, courtesy of Thanatos.

Thanatos may have taken on the appearance of a beautiful youth, but Charon’s form was closer to what Thanatos had expected from the chthonic gods: an almost formless, imposing body and a dark, expressionless face. Perhaps he ought to be afraid, but he willed himself not to be. He knew that there was nothing to fear, that he would soon reach that place of rest and respite for heroes.

But Theseus was fortunate that his soul had even been brought into the underworld at all—or so Thanatos told him during their brief conversation together as they headed, alone, to a place that didn’t seem to be Elysium. “Usually he’ll leave you to wander along the shoreline on the outskirts if you can’t pay, even if you have a good reason for it,” Death said, nodding at Charon. “We’ll be making a special exception for you as a hero favored by the gods of Olympus. Otherwise Zeus will try to start telling us how to do our jobs down here.”

Purple smoke poured out of Charon’s mouth in what may have been a response but only served to make Theseus cough.

Apparently Thanatos understood him well enough, because he either continued from where his companion left off or translated it. “Bide your time until we get things squared away for you, King Theseus. You may find it a bit dull until then, but the fields will be eternal no matter when you get there. And… don’t worry too much about the circumstances of your death. I assure you they’re not the strangest I’ve heard of.”

With that he vanished quite unceremoniously, leaving Theseus without the chance to get a word in edgewise—not to ask Death what “getting things squared away” meant or even to tell him that he had been _pushed_ down that cliff, thank you.

“I had more to say, you know!” Theseus said with perhaps less enthusiasm than was typical for him, not particularly wanting to anger the god he had been left with. “Can’t I talk to someone myself and get things taken care of?”

“Hnnnrgh?”

“Bah, never mind!”

And so Theseus was left unattended with the countless other souls waiting to be judged and placed where they deserved, indistinguishable and unremarkable among them. At first he tried to tell the others that he was different, he was a hero, and that his presence here was a mistake. The other souls had given their obols and had yet to be judged, but Theseus’ placement was inevitable and he simply had a _tab_ —shouldn’t that grant him special privileges?

Evidently, this was not the case. He quickly discovered that Thanatos had spoken the truth in at least one respect: Erebus was _boring_.

Initially, his inclination was to stay among the largest group of souls and will the time to pass faster, but he soon tired of that. The other souls were not particularly enthusiastic conversationalists, and most ignored him entirely. This was a conundrum Theseus had never experienced in life, so he was left dumbfounded. But surely it would not do any harm to wander, to explore. The gods of the underworld could find him when they were ready for him, and in the meantime he could keep himself amused.

At the very least, he could observe what went on in this place, dimly-lit though it was. Beyond the huddled masses there were individuals who had left the crowd, and then, further on, there were souls that did not seem to be quite human—they might have been animals, or monsters, or perhaps humans that had been condemned to spend their afterlife looking like this. It all made little difference to Theseus, so long as they left him alone. They didn’t seem particularly trustworthy, and he was rather irritable now, and in no mood to fight.

He could not tell how much time had passed—there was no way of knowing when there was no sun, no moon, and no need to eat or sleep—when he, quite by accident, encountered a creature who he recognized. It was the very Bull of Minos himself, as impressive in death as he had once been in life.

In all of the times Theseus had told the tale of meeting the Minotaur, all of them exaggerated, the one thing he had never lied about was the creature’s size. There had been no need to, for the Minotaur was taller than any natural man, and nearly as broad as a true bull.

The sight of the sublime beast was impossible to forget, and each of his features had haunted Theseus’ very dreams: the muscular shoulders, the hands the size of dinner plates, the long and matted mane. It occurred to him that he had been waiting his entire life for this moment.

This felt like fate, in a way that few encounters did.

It was an odd thing, though. The Minotaur was not engaged in combat with another monster, as Theseus might have expected, nor was he feasting on his latest kill. He did not stand, not even simply to loom threateningly above the crowd. Instead, the Bull sat on the ground, far away from anyone else and hunched over, as though to make himself seem smaller. Like this, he seemed peaceful. Almost pathetic.

But no, Theseus’ eyes must have been playing tricks on him! This was a monster above all other monsters, the most fearsome creature in all of Greece. A fine amusement indeed, and perhaps something more! They could fight again, a _real_ fight this time, and afterwards Theseus could ask the questions that had been eating away at him for as long as he could remember.

“What ho, Bull!” Theseus called when he was within shouting distance. The Minotaur turned toward his voice and blinked those small, beady eyes of his. Not charging, barely moving at all—only watching. It was almost anticlimactic.

“I come in peace!” Theseus continued, stepping closer. “For now. Soon, we will battle, and I will best you in combat once again! I have only grown stronger through my life, and so you can be no true match for me! But fear not, for I intend to show you great mercy, and I will not kill you again, if such things are even possible here! Instead, I— ah!”

There were many things that he might have envisioned happening in this encounter, but had never imagined that all the Minotaur would do was give him a soft tap on his cheek. It was a gentleness he’d thought such a creature was incapable of. But it was proof that even a monster such as the Minotaur had some ability to control his violent urges. That was good! They could indeed converse, almost!

The beast snorted, and it almost sounded like he said “are you _real_?”

“How absurd,” Theseus said with a chuckle to himself. “I almost thought you could speak!”

“I can speak,” said the Minotaur, and Theseus nearly died a second death, this one from pure shock.

He did his best to recover quickly, but Theseus’ voice shook with his next words. “Could you repeat that?” he said, a kingly enough response. His mind raced with the possibilities; if the Minotaur _could_ speak, then…

Then Theseus may have completely misjudged him, and taken him for less of a man than he truly was. It was a harrowing thought. But what was there to do now other than press on?

“Can you now,” Theseus replied, not quite eloquently.

The Minotaur paused for a moment, almost as though he wasn’t sure if he ought to respond. “I can speak,” he repeated. “I am just as much human as I am bull, as you must be aware.”

His voice suited him well: loud and deep, almost booming. The choice of words came as a surprise, however, for there was no malice in them, and indeed his tone was almost sad.

“Of course I know about your origin!” Theseus said, puffing his chest up in an attempt to add an air of confidence to his words, an act that the Minotaur seemed to either not notice or was simply unimpressed by. “But then answer me this: why have you never spoken to me before?”

The Minotaur snorted—or sighed? “You didn’t give me much of a chance to last time.”

Theseus deflated slightly. A king never apologized, but in that moment he felt a tinge of remorse. It was only natural that the Minotaur would despise the man who killed him, no matter how glorious his killer’s tale was.

“I’m not angry about it,” The Minotaur said.

“Well! If there are no hard feelings, then good! It was really nothing personal.”

“You only did what you needed and what was expected of you.”

He put it so simply, but now that the two of them were able to speak, man to bull, Theseus felt an unfamiliar, doubt creeping upon him. He couldn’t admit to as much, though—if there was any time to keep up a facade of complete self-assurance, it was now. “It is true!” he said. “I slayed you to avenge your many murders, as a king ought to!”

The Minotaur failed to respond further, and so Theseus continued, happy to do most of the talking so long as he got a response eventually. “Have I done you—and myself!—the disservice of not introducing myself? Very well then, I will remedy my error. I am called Theseus, founder-king of Athens. Known throughout the nation for a great many things, but particularly my slaying of a number of majestic and dangerous beasts. You, Minotaur, the greatest of them all.”

“That you became known for defeating me, I do not find surprising. I have heard this from the shades that occupy this place, on the rare occasions they allow me to come close enough to eavesdrop on their conversations about me. But—a king?”

“Surely even you can recognize the splendor of a king!”

“My mother’s husband was one as well. You are unlike him.”

“Well! I’ll take that as a complement!”

“You would not be wrong to do that.”

Another thing they could agree on! That was a pleasing thought, and Theseus was glad to have honed his negotiation skills over the years. They had been less useful than expected when it came to his discussions with Lycomedes, but at least he would be able to use them now.

“So now, my proposition. Bull!” Theseus said, excitement building within him. “We shall spar once again!”

“Excuse me?”

“You are excused. Now, choose your weapon and we can begin. But not to the death, perhaps—I don’t think that would be appreciated. And I am not quite sure where it would send the loser!”

“I don’t want to fight you, and I have no reason to do so. And you have no reason to talk to me.”

“You are wrong on at least two of those accounts! You have a reason to fight me, and I have a reason to talk to you—and those reasons are one and the same. We can—nay, we are _destined_ to clash once again as warriors. I have always known that our relationship must not end with death, but with another battle in the afterlife!”

In truth, the thought had come to him only now, but there was no need to reveal as much to the Minotaur. He often had his best ideas at the spur of the moment. This one, he knew, was perfect.

Yet despite Theseus’ approach, he couldn’t help but notice that his soon-to-be opponent lacked both armor and weapon despite having presumably ample time to find such things. He’d not even taken a rock from the ground with him to defend himself against the other monsters that roamed Erebus!

It was not a lie, then: The Minotaur did not wish to fight.

“Then tell me this, Bull,” Theseus said. “Is the thought of combat against me unappealing? You made no effort to preserve your life the last time we met, and now there is no desire for revenge. Choosing one’s opponents carefully, I understand. There is no need to bore oneself with the rabble. But not wishing to fight _me_ , the person who ended your very life? Do you have no drive even for _revenge_?

The Minotaur did not respond. Preposterous! Theseus had only now learned that he could talk. Why should he now refuse him the pleasure of a good conversation, at the very least?

In life, Theseus had been called stubborn. He preferred to think of it as refusing to yield. Either way, the Minotaur was practically ignoring him, and that was simply unacceptable!

“Tell me this, at least, as you refuse to answer any of my questions! As I fought you so long ago in your labyrinth, why did you not put up so much as the slightest of fights? I had come there, ready for the battle that would define my life, and yet I did not receive the expected challenge! Why, I felt like I was slaying an innocent, not a monster! Was it because I did not deserve even the honor of being fought? Did it anger you that I was not a well-behaved sacrifice? I’ve thought about it for _decades_ , and still, I understand not!

Theseus took a deep breath, well aware that he was beginning to babble. Fine, then, let him babble! He would until he got the answers that he required. “Bull of Minos, it has been driving me _mad_ that I did not have the honor of enjoying a proper match with you! I told kings, generals, even the gods themselves—though they no doubt could detect my untruths—that the battle we fought was an epic one. I had to—they’d not have believed otherwise! And you! You made me a liar throughout all of my life!”

“You talk too much,” the Minotaur said.

Theseus crossed his arms. “Perhaps you should talk more!”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“It’s called a conversation! Something that you seem to struggle with, given your history.” It was a low blow, he knew, but at this point in his frustration he no longer cared.

“I haven’t had much of a chance to practice.”

“You will be the death of me, Bull.”

“I think it was the opposite, in fact.”

Evidently, the Minotaur could not only speak, he also had a sense of humor, and now Theseus was the butt of the joke. Increasingly, it felt like Theseus was speaking to a _man_ , not a monster. It did not matter that this might be a dangerous line of thought. He would come to understand his fated enemy’s reasons for refusing to fight him—and then, he would have the glorious battle that he so desperately desired. Nay, deserved!

“King Theseus, are you...” the Minotaur paused. There was an odd quality to his voice, Theseus had noticed. A sort of hoarseness, as if his words had gone long unused. Rather than ignoring Theseus, was he merely choosing each word with care? “Are you quite serious about what you said earlier? That you think that we are destined to clash again, somehow?”

“But of course! In life, you brought me glory, and I brought you— ah, well, anyway. You have me stumped, Bull, and I do not say such things easily. I once thought that the unholy cross between man and beast would be nothing but a monster. And then... we fought.”

“Look at me, now. I’ve been sent to the deepest pits of the underworld, among the creatures here. And even they fear me. See how we haven’t been bothered by a single one of them?”

Theseus _had_ noticed as much.

“They fear me,” the Minotaur continued. “They are less powerful beasts than I. They know that I am lower than even them. and even more dangerous.”

“What is there to fear? You refuse to even take up a weapon!”

“I have no reason to hurt them, or you. I told you already that I do not wish to fight. In truth, I dislike combat. It only ends in death for one party or the other, and I have precisely as much interest in killing you as I did the last time we met.”

“Will you tell me why, now? Or are you bullheaded in more ways than one?”

“What is there to tell?” He shook his wide head, and though his mane was as unkempt as a wild horse’s, the gesture was laughably human. “I lived as a beast and died as one. I deserved to die for my misdeeds, and I welcomed it. That is all.”

Ariadne had told him so many years ago that her brother had been gentle once. There may have been a greater truth to her words than he had been willing to entertain. It was rare indeed for Theseus to be struck speechless as he was then, and he couldn’t find the words to respond before the Mintoaur began to trudge away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, plot! I actually wrote this chapter twice. The first version started with Theseus arriving in Elysium normally and deciding to look for Asterius after quickly realizing that the afterlife was boring. I do still like this idea but a) it's been done and b) it didn't feel compatible with the way I write him. Eventually, a chat with some friends on Discord turned into this revised chapter. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm very pleased with the final version! (The moral is, if we're friends, I might steal your ideas. Thank you, friends!) (I do think that this concept has also been done before. Oh well.)
> 
> According to Plutarch, there are some versions of Theseus' story that say he was pushed and fell down a cliff, but others say he slipped. The latter is, of course, WAY funnier. (And arguably more true to Hades canon, since Thanatos, who Theseus recognizes in the game, is associated with peaceful death and slipping and falling to your death is arguably more peaceful than being pushed.)
> 
> You'll notice this fic is just a series of excuses for me to make Theseus and Asterius interact with characters that they don't in canon. I particularly liked Theseus and Charon. Unstoppable force meets immovable object. Hnnnrgh.
> 
> I kind of appreciate how little Hades gives us on what steps happen when someone dies. Like, we see shades lined up in front of Hades, but there's also an office where everyone is doing soul paperwork, and Erebus exists, and in mythology there were other judges of souls? So I get to make stuff up based on what fits the story. Thanks, Supergiant!
> 
> p.s. I hope you like these author's notes with running commentary, because I do and I'm not gonna stop.
> 
> p.p.s. sorry for all the Theseus POV but consider this: I love him. (The next chapter is similarly mostly Asterius PoV. There's no pattern to this, I just go with whatever feels more interesting for a given scene.)


	4. Second Bout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just need to have a bit of nude wrestling to work out your differences.

Why did this man torment him so? Asterius needed no reminders of his life; it was impossible to forget who he had once been.

And yet the boy who killed him had arrived here in Erebus, this new labyrinth of Hades. He was a man now, but his face was unmistakable, unforgettable: the strength of his jawline, the shining gold of his hair, the passion and honesty in his eyes. Asterius thought him at first a phantom or an illusion, but when he tried to touch him, his broad hand met what was unmistakably flesh. The man standing before him felt shockingly real, even though the both of them were merely spirits, and Asterius realized when he touched him just how long it had been since he last felt the warmth of another human being

What peace he had in Erebus, as unusual of a peace as it was, was about to end. Perhaps it had only been a matter of time, and this now-shattered moment of respire had merely been a way for the Fates to mock him before sending him to his eternal torture. Surely, the man intended to kill him, despite saying otherwise. What else would a man want from a monster like him?

He spoke of destiny, of a connection between them. But beast of a man that Asterius was, fate would not look upon him with such kindness.

Theseus. A normal enough name, but the man standing before him was anything but typical. He bore little resemblance to Asterius’ father, so it was hard to believe that he too was a king. Minos had ruled Asterius just as he had his nation: with an iron fist, keeping his distance otherwise.

In each of Asterius’ prisons, Theseus looked him in the eye as Minos never had. He’d granted him no pardon in life, but from the moment he became aware that Asterius could speak, he seemed to soften somewhat. He had offered a fight, but didn’t seem in much of a rush. And he was _talking_ to Asterius, as though he thought that the Minotaur may have had something of value to say. Asterius tried to explain himself, though he expected the words would fall on deaf ears, and yet Theseus listened.

And then the king told him he wasn’t doing an adequate job of _acting like the monster he ought to be_.

It was all very confusing, and Asterius knew how to respond to precisely none of it. But there was still one thing he could do that had not been possible in the labyrinth: he could simply leave.

The king did not give up so easily. As Asterius walked away, Theseus followed. With his significantly shorter legs, he struggled to keep up with even Asterius’ moderate pace, but it did not wind him.

“Halt. Halt, I say!” said the king, practically jogging beside him. “I’m not done with you! If you prefer not to have a conversation, that is all the more reason to spar!”

“You speak nonsense, King.”

“I speak only the truth: that we are meant to fight, and in that way come to understand one another. Is that really so unusual?”

The truth of it was that Asterius was not sure what was usual or unusual to a man, for he’d never had the chance to learn. He let out a low snort, as he often did when he was thinking, and Theseus flinched. It was not a pleasing sight, for Asterius had not meant to frighten him. He’d never meant to frighten anyone with his more cowlike tendencies, yet he had, over and over again: Ariadne, the other sacrifices, and now even the one person he assumed no longer feared him.

“I see!” said Theseus, some small amount of venom now in his voice. Asterius was relieved by it; the king did not deserve to spend his waiting-time in distress. “So you mock me, fiend, or else threaten me! You see me as unworthy to even face in combat, do you? After all that we’ve been through?”

“You misunderstand me. I see no point to it.”

“We are in _Erebus_. How else do you plan to pass the time, if you do not wish to talk or spar?

Asterius shrugged. “It’s true that there’s nothing to do here. And so I do nothing. With my origins as they are, I am a very patient beast.”

The king could find nothing to object to in that, surely. He would agree, and let Asterius be, and then…

“Are you familiar with pankration?”

“No,” said Asterius, cautiously.

“A sport. A game! Wrestling, more or less.”

It seemed he would only continue to surprise Asterius. Wrestling? Theseus _had_ been able to kill him with his bare hands, but it still didn’t sound like much of a threat, so why bother wasting his time with _wrestling_?

“Are you trying to challenge me to that, now? It wouldn’t be a fair match.”

“Do not be ashamed, Bull, I shall treat you gently this time!”

“I meant that I’m twice your size, at least, and now that I am dead I’m no longer starving. I am the obvious victor.”

“Ah, but you are inexperienced, and so I have at least twice the skills! The truth is that I will be the one who sees victory. Unless you are too cowardly to prove me wrong?” Theseus cocked his eyebrow, a wide grin on his face. It seemed like his emotions could change in an instant, or else he wanted to seem more confident than he truly was. “Just a single match to start, and we can bet something on it. If I win, we can have another. If you win, which you will not—”

“There’s nothing you can give me.”

“If you win I will do whatever is in my power to grant you your own wish,” the king finished, nodding as though he had not heard Asterius, or else did not care. “Anything at all!"

“You say odd things." Odd, but when Theseus looked at him with such conviction, the Minotaur could almost begin to believe that he was right.

“You underestimate me, and you will come to regret that!”

“I’m coming to discover that you’re unwilling to take no for an answer.”

“I am indeed!” replied Theseus with a wide grin. “For what sort of king would I even _be_ if I allowed myself to compromise?”

“Fine, then. I will do it, so that you will be satisfied. But know this: I expect nothing from you, and I want nothing from you.”

“And you shall have something far beyond your expectations. Enough of that, though. We shall speak now with our bodies!”

With a few quick motions, Theseus removed his clothing, an intricate chiton that Asterius assumed must be made of the finest materials. A confused Asterius could not mirror his actions. The tattered scrap of fabric he had died in was lost long ago and there was no opportunity to find a substitute. Whether this was typical of humans or not, Asterius could not say, but each one that he had met seemed to prefer being clothed.

It made little difference, of course, though the sight of Theseus’ nude form provided a certain, unexpected amount of distraction. It must have been because the comical differences in their bodies were even more pronounced now: Asterius massive and gangly, and Theseus shaped as though he had been carved from marble.

His clothing now shed, Theseus got into what Asterius could only assume was the appropriate stance for wrestling. Asterius mirrored him, though it felt awkward. He had seen other boys playing through his window sometimes, and they seemed to enjoy this kind of thing. Asterius had, of course, been forbidden from playing with them.

The king did not explain any further rules of the match, and Asterius saw no reason to ask for them. It seemed like it would be straightforward enough: a clash of two bodies until one of them surrendered. Distractions aside, Asterius still expected to be the winner if he put in even the smallest bit of effort, and it was clear that Theseus would not leave him alone until he did.

Theseus must have known this, yet he did not hesitate. He charged at him almost immediately, offering the Minotaur no chance to prepare for it. His shoulder struck Asterius’ stomach, knocking the wind from him only briefly. It didn’t hurt, but did serve as a momentary distraction.

On reflex, Asterius took a step back, then another; Theseus matched him step for step in what Asterius supposed qualified as following in pursuit. The king swung his arm and Asterius caught him by the hand, and then again with the other. If they had been the same size, their hands might have been clasped, but as it was it looked more like Theseus was pushing against a wall.

In this position, Asteirus might have had the chance to strike, but he was not familiar with the art of wrestling and was unsure of what, precisely, he ought to do. That he did not know the rules may have proved to be his downfall. Somehow, Theseus managed to knock him off balance and push him to the ground. Before Asterius could stop him he had begun some sort of headlock. It felt harmless, but uncomfortable.

A new feeling began to rise within Asterius, one that he had not expected. The victory was not as decisive as he had expected, but he _wanted_ it to be. He wanted to end this match, not because he desired its prize or even to convince Theseus to stop this charade of games and wagers.

No: Asterius simply wished to _win_ , for its own sake.

What must victory be like, if Theseus had such lust for it? Asterius could not imagine, but now, he began to wonder. He’d spent all of his existence holding back his strength, knowing full well that his body was an abomination and could cause another person only pain.

And yet...

“Minotaur!” Theseus hissed, “Fight back!”

And yet the king _wanted_ to see the full extent of his strength.

A part of Theseus feared Asterius. He knew this from the way he flinched from his loud grunts, from the slight tremor he had seen in his hands in the labyrinth so long ago. But Theseus had not let that fear overtake him. It had been that inner strength that brought him to the labyrinth to face him once, and a greater strength still to do it twice, when both times he was outmatched. It was admirable, honorable. An honor that Asterius did not deserve.

Asterius placed a broad hand against Theseus’ waist, thick with muscle but still easy enough for a creature of Asterius’ size to push against. He broke Theseus’ grip on him easily, and stood up, pushing his opponent to the ground in the process.

As Theseus landed on his bottom, Asterius winced in sympathy, though he had been as gentle as he could manage, but Theseus only grinned. “That’s the spirit,” he said, quickly springing back to his feet.

Pleased at that response despite himself, Asterius made more of an effort to deflect the next attacks. When Theseus charged him, Asterius turned his shoulder, blocking him from reaching his chest and stomach. When Theseus made an attempt to grab his body, Asterius grabbed him instead, and pushed him away. It soon felt more like a game than a fight as Asterius began to anticipate his blows, and as he watched Theseus recover easily from each counter.

The king, he realized, was strong. Asterius _could_ hurt him, but he might have to try The thought of it offered Asterius confidence that he had not expected. He might not have to hold back as much as he thought. He might allow himself to win.

With that in mind, Asterius charged.

Theseus must not have expected it, for he had no way of defending himself and yelped in surprise when Asterius made contact and caused Theseus to lose his balance. As they struck the ground together, Theseus pushed on the Minotaur’s shoulders, making some attempt to fight back, but as expected Asterius’ sheer size made it impossible for him to do anything more than flail uselessly when he was pinned down so thoroughly.

The grin on Theseus’ face did not falter, even as Asterius held him down. He laid there panting, dirt on his clothes and hair messy, but he was wholly unharmed. “You win,” said Theseus as he gave up the struggle once and for all. “A magnificent match, Bull. I could surely learn to defeat you in time, but for now we are even: one win and one loss each.”

With those words, Asterius felt a warmth swelling in his heart that he scarcely recognized. His body had led him to victory, and nobody had been murdered in the process. And Theseus—a human, a king—was pleased with him.

He had never pleased someone before by simply being himself. The feeling of it was… unforgettable.

Losing did not suit Theseus, but to be bested in a fair, friendly fight did not feel like a loss. He had slain monsters aplenty and he had sparred with friends just as often, and this match had felt distinctly like the later.

It was an odd thought, but he knew this to be true: the Minotaur had treated him with a certain gentleness, even during their match. Theseus wasn’t sure how much harm he could possibly come to when he was already dead, but it was clear that the creature had felt no need—perhaps not even a desire—to explore those limits. Instead he had focused on deflecting blows, and even when he did fight back he had not come close to truly hurting Theseus.

And he had fought well indeed! True, his moves were clumsy and unsophisticated, but those were simply signs that he was still an amateur. He had potential, and thinking of how things could advance from here was truly thrilling. The Minotaur could refine his technique, and Theseus could teach him and so in turn come to learn him well, could figure out how to anticipate his moves and outsmart him.

Theseus paused.

He was already beginning to think of the Minotaur as an ally, wasn’t he?

It wouldn’t have been the first time that a rocky first meeting had led to a meaningful friendship for him. Dear Pirithous, may Hades look after him well, had not offered the best first impression either, and that friendship went well enough, at least for a time. It would, however, be the first time he befriended a _mon_ —

Cows weren’t monsters, were they? And monsters did not fight fair, either. There was much to think about.

Either way, Theseus was getting ahead of himself. He would not be in Erebus forever; he was still bound for Elysium! If he wished to fight the Minotaur again, he would have to find a way for their relationship to continue.

Well, that was the second-to-next step.

“Can you get off of me?” Theseus asked. “I don’t mind if you wish to stay on top of me and gloat for a bit, but eventually!”

At that the Minotaur hastily removed himself from Theseus, mumbling something that sounded like an apology. Truly, though, Theseus minded not! He’d been in wrestling matches before that ended like this, and sometimes that led to something more, if the match was private enough and his partner saw fit to take advantage of his position, and…

Theseus forced himself to dismiss such inappropriate thoughts. That wouldn’t occur between a man and the _Minotaur_ , surely.

The Minotaur paused for a moment, perhaps contemplating his victory, perhaps enjoying it in silence. How must it feel to have bested the same man who had killed you in life? Theseus could not imagine it now, though he looked forward to meeting Lycomedes in the underworld one day. It ought to be the sweetest victory imaginable!

But when he spoke, it did not seem like he was satisfied. “I won,” he said, confused, as though he was unsure of how to proceed. He sat on the ground, and despite his great height he slouched, as though desperate to appear smaller. To disappear. “And now…”

“We had a promise—and so! What do you request as your prize, Bull? I cannot offer you the riches I might have had in life, but I will no doubt have a certain amount of influence in the afterlife as well.”

“There is nothing I can ask of you. This match was… fun. I haven’t had fun in a long time. That is enough.”

But it was not enough! Theseus sat himself next to the Minotaur, nearly close enough to touch him. He had once thought the massive creature fearsome; now, he knew that there was nothing to fear. “I had fun as well,” Theseus said. “You are not so frightening outside of the labyrinth.”

“People leave me alone here, and I do not feel hunger, so there is no need to kill. It is peaceful.” He paused. “Or maybe I should say that I am at peace.”

“We might have been like this in life, if things had been different,” Theseus mused. “Both princes, and both capable warriors. King Minos did you a disservice locking you away. You might have been a skilled general in his army, or even a capable king yourself. Nobody would find any cause to invade Crete if its king was such a magnificent creature!”

“I am not magnificent. You know this; you know I am a monster. You killed me yourself because of that.”

“In this situation, I am willing to admit I was wrong.”

Asterius blinked. “Wrong.”

“We are different as can be bull, Bull. A man and a beast, a hero and a murderer. Here in Erebus together, though our destinations are different. But you fight well, and you fight _fair_. If our bodies are able to communicate so well, we may not be so different after all.”

“I cannot agree with you,” said the Minotaur. But he did not deny Theseus either.

That was adequate, at least for now.

Soon enough, Theseus would grow bored of him. Asterius could be sure of this. His own fighting abilities were not half as grand as Theseus seemed to think they were, and it was merely the _novelty_ of him fighting back that had gained the king’s interest.

And so Asterius put no stock in any of the king’s words. He listened, nodded along—but did not dare to let himself imagine that Theseus might have been sincere when he observed any similarities, any bond. Their connection was that Theseus was meant to deliver Asterius from his suffering in life, then go on to bask in his glory. Nothing more, nothing less.

But their conversation continued, and soon it turned toward their respective pasts, after they had first clashed. (“Catching up,” Theseus said. Asterius snorted, almost laughter.) The king told Asterius the tale of his death, providing in great detail an account of how he was taken advantage of and cruelly murdered for fear of his skill and prowess. It made sense then why he would be in Erebus at all, when his placement in Elysium was clear—it was just a matter of getting things sorted out among the gods.

In turn, Asterius discussed the nature of the underworld, and his own fate. He knew he was meant to be punished in Tartarus, though Theseus did not seem wholly convinced of it when he said as much, and presumed he was waiting in Erebus to be judged simply because his placement was not considered a priority. He didn’t mind waiting; anything to make work a bit easier for the gods was fine. They were very busy, surely.

“And if there was another option?” Theseus said when Asterius concluded these musings. “Would you accept placement into Asphodel, or even Elysium?”

“There’s no point in considering that. It is impossible. I was never taught these things, but I have overheard much from the other shades. The areas outside of Erebus and Tartarus are reserved for humans, and perhaps animals who have been loyal and good to them. Someone like me would not be allowed such consideration.”

“But if you only caused harm to humans because of your hunger, and only ate them because that was what you were fed, you yourself cannot be blamed for it. Perhaps the gods will have mercy on you.”

Asterius shook his head. The gods were not kind to monsters, and even a king did not have the power to change that. And besides, a comfortable afterlife belonged to those who had earned it. “It is fine. I accepted this fate long ago.”

“It is not fine! But be not concerned, for I have a solution. You said that you wish for nothing as a reward for your victory against me just now, and yet I, in my compassion, shall offer you everything.”

“Shall you?”

“I shall! Soon, I will be permitted access to Elysium, but I will return for another match. We are tied, now.” Theseus grinned. “That is reason enough for a third one.”

The Minotaur snorted. “That is impossible. You speak as though you are a fool, even though you are not.”

“Ah, but that is what you said when I challenged you just now. And yet you enjoyed it!”

“That is different. The judges of the dead place each being where they are assigned. Their minds cannot be changed, and the barriers between each part of the underworld cannot be breached.”

“Have you tried?” Theseus asked, and did not wait for an answer. “No! You have not!”

“You will fail, and I will rot in the depths of Tartarus where I belong.”

“I will find you eventually. I will have eternity.”

“You should not bother. What would you do with me, even if you found me? Fight the Furies and claim me for yourself?”

“Now that is an idea!”

“I jest, King.”

Such banter brought joy to Asterius’ heart the likes of which he scarcely recognized, even though he knew the king’s words were hollow. For a few short moments, he could imagine what it might be like to have a future, a goal to work toward like any normal man—and more than that, he could pretend to have an ally.

Yet their banter could not last forever, and to Asterius, who had never had such a lengthy conversation before, it seemed to be only an instant before they were forced to cease. The boundaries of the underworld were ever shifting, and so what was once solid ground behind them became a river, and on that river came a boat. Asterius nearly jumped out of his own fur when he heard the low groan behind him.

“Do not frighten us like that!” said Theseus, jumping up. “My companion here is delicate!”

“Hnnrgh?” Charon said. “Mmmmrpghh.”

“I don’t understand a word you are saying, but I feel you are mocking me.”

“King, please do not antagonize him. I believe he is trying to take you away to your rightful place. Everything must have been sorted out,” Asterius said.

“Ah! Very wise of you indeed, Minotaur!” Theseus said.

Asterius might have been inclined to blush at the complement, if he could.

“Haaaaaah,” replied the boatman in what was presumably affirmation and either way involved a large quantity of smoke, perhaps more than was strictly necessary. He held out his hand and Theseus took it. It was almost surprising that Charon had a form at all, let alone that he could clasp hands with someone, but Asterius supposed he had to welcome people onto his boat somehow.

This was good. The king was a great man, even greater than Asterius had realized, for he possessed not only strength but also mercy. He did not belong here; he should go.

He did go—until he did not, instead pausing mid-step to look back at Asterius, frowning.

“Go on,” said Asterius. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I promise you, Bull—”

“Promise me nothing. I will look fondly on our time here, just as I do our time together in life.”

The boat was already setting sail. No doubt gods lacked the time and the patience to allow for lengthy goodbyes, not after so many partings that must have been so similar to this one. Theseus might have watched Asterius as they sailed away, or he might have looked at the horizon—Asterius did not know. He could not bear to watch Theseus for one moment longer. He would never see him again, and knew better than to allow himself any sense of false hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pinning your rival to the ground and looking deeply into his honest eyes is something that can be so intimate... bro let's get naked and sweaty while you think about how brave and sexy I am... bro.
> 
> If you're reading Theseus/Asterius fanfiction you probably already know this but yes, wrestling in ancient Greece was traditionally done nude. Pankration is a sporting event that was supposedly invented by Theseus and Heracles, and though it never comes up in Hades I have a feeling Theseus is very proud of it.
> 
> Theseus, like sixty years after killing Asterius: I guess bulls aren't actually monsters, huh. (He will admit he was wrong one [1] time and never again.)
> 
> Now, you may be wondering... did Theseus ever put his clothes back on or did he hop on Charon's boat nude? It's probably the second one.


	5. New Journeys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A determined Theseus sets off to have Asterius join him in Elysium, taking the long way if he has to. Asterius isn't so sure whether to trust him, whether his ideas are any good, or what this strange feeling deep inside of him even _is_.

The river was black, purple, red, blue—all of them at once, and Theseus distinctly felt that if he fell into it, he’d never manage to get out again. His body hummed with excitement and anxiety side by side, one blending into the other, and sitting still became quite a challenge. His ride on Charon’s rowboat, small but somehow more imposing than any seacraft he’d been on before, was meant to be toward paradise. But with each stroke of the boatman’s oar Theseus felt as though he was, in fact, leaving the afterlife that he truly desired.

He’d always had a certain tendency to change his mind at a moment’s notice, though usually over small things, like what to have for dinner. To now be _missing_ the minotaur that had been his greatest foe in life—well, this was a change that was unexpected. Their time together had been fleeting, and the pure joy of a good fight always made time pass quickly, but even in that short time he had discovered a kinship.

Why, then, had he not been able to take the Minotaur along? On the face of it, it seemed like an easy task. Charon’s boat had room for one more, and they weren’t even alive! How heavy could a few souls possibly be, even if one of them was half-cow?

But the moment he was face-to-face with Charon (if the god even had a face), Theseus had felt compelled to follow him, and to obey in utter silence. He could talk freely to any man—and even any monster!—but it seemed that the presence of a god was stronger than any of that. Charon had not spoken, and indeed seemed unable to speak, and yet Theseus had somehow agreed to his silent request with barely a moment of hesitation.

Even now, he felt as though he would not be able to voice his opinions. When he made any attempt, no words came out, as though the boatman himself was forcing them back down into Theseus’ throat. Whether it was due to some sort of spell or his own hesitation Theseus could not say. Either way, guilt ate at him so that his trip through the underworld felt long, much longer than his time in Erebus.

He tried to convince himself to little avail that it was nothing to make a fuss about. He had always been meant for Elysium, and the Minotaur meant to suffer in obscurity. It was not so wrong to allow the natural order of things to continue on as they would.

And yet, what sort of a king would he be if he did not honor the deserving just as he judged the wicked?

All of this remained unsaid, and the journey was silent despite Theseus’ best efforts. The strokes of Charon’s oar were slow and even, which somehow made the ride even more maddening, and by the end of it Theseus felt as though he was about to burst. Charon either did not notice, or did not care.

“Haaaaaah, nrrrrgh,” said Charon when they reached shore. At once, the river changed once again. It seemed different now, more like any river on Earth only clearer and more pristine. The fields, too, seemed familiar but somehow larger than life, wider and more beautiful than any common field. Butterflies floated around them, and in the distance, other spirits lounged, swords and shields alongside many of them.

This was the paradise of Elysium, and yet Theseus was inclined to ask the boatman to turn around and collect one more soul before leaving him here. But just as he was compelled to join Charon, and drawn in by Thanatos before him, he was once again powerless to resist the boatman waving him out.

Finally, when his feet were firmly on the ethereal grass, just slightly softer and greener than that of the world of the living, Theseus found his words once again.

“Lord Charon!” he said, sure to include a proper title in order to please the god. “I must—”

But when he turned around, there was nobody behind him, and no river. Once again the landscape had shifted. As he wandered toward the meadows of Elysium, he began to ponder the eternity that stretched ahead of him and the adventures that would follow.

Theseus tried to feel at peace without the Minotaur. He ought to want for nothing here, and yet there was something that Elysium could not provide.

For a time, he allowed himself to stay put, albeit restlessly. Though he did not need to eat, he could feast whenever he wished; though his body never grew tired, it was easy to find partners to take to his bed. It was the easy, peaceful death that all dreamed of in life.

Many in Elysium happily sparred with him, and that filled the rest of his time. He was a king, after all, and it was considered an honor for anyone to face him in battle. This should have been a joyous pursuit, but it was not. There was no meaning behind any of the fights, no passion, no history. Nothing like he had experienced with the Minotaur.

Soon, he took over his thoughts. Theseus tried in vain to find someone, anyone, who would provide a match with even half as much meaning as the Minotaur could. It turned out that he could barely find a good _conversation_ , much of the time.

Though some of his fellow shades here were happy to offer tales of their adventures in life, just as many of them had chosen instead to drink of the Lethe and forget both their pains and their joys. They enjoyed their deaths not in peaceful retirement but in nothingness. All of them had lost their memories, and nearly as many had lost _themselves_ , no longer existing to do anything but fight again and again, without any goal or point to it at all.

“Why do such a thing, my friend?” he asked of one shade who had chosen to forget. A man who had little to say, but had not become mindless in the absence of memory. Not yet.

“I must have thought it better to forget, at the time. And now I’ll never know,” replied the shade.

“It seems foolish to deny oneself one’s own memories! Only through struggles do we become great in the first place. How, then, can you call yourself a hero deserving a place in Elysium if you cannot even explain your deeds?”

The shade—he’d had a name, once, and likely a title—merely shrugged. “It was good enough for Hades, wasn’t it?”

Theseus was not convinced. To forget was denial of who one was. More than that, it was cowardice. Any mortal great enough to be in Elysium had no doubt done things that were worth remembering, celebrating for eternity. And even the pain and regret of life ought to shape who one would become in death.

He did not judge the Lethe-drinkers. He did not even pity them, really. But to forget his own life—struggles, accomplishments, and sorrows alike—would be unthinkable.

Elysium was meant to be a resting-place, but he’d no desire to rest. Even the battles he was able to pursue had no stakes, stirred no passion, and led to no glory.

There was one man alone who could give Theseus the fight he wished for. Theseus had wasted enough time alone in Elysium, and though he had come no closer to answering the question of _how_ he could retrieve the Minotaur, it felt as though it was high time to simply _do it_.

He could tell nobody of this. His fellow shades would not understand his reasons, and those that he had been acquainted with in life would outright mock him. It was Theseus alone who was beginning to know the Minotaur for who he was, for it was only Theseus who spent the better part of his life aching to know him, and only Theseus who had met him again in death and begun to uncover his secrets.

Theseus left on his quest as he often had in life: with little direction, no solid plan, and an incredible amount of spirit to make up for both of those things. He was a king—and he was already dead! What was the worst that could happen?

The reason Theseus had taken up the spear had _not_ been in order to smite his foes from a distance without getting his hands dirty. No, that would be a coward’s way out! The fact of the matter was that hand-to-hand combat had been his preference ever since he was young. It was a chance to truly feel his enemy’s heat, to see the passion in his eyes, to almost taste the sweat on his brow. But the spear was a noble weapon, and Theseus was a _king_ , so he had learned how to wield it years ago.

As he tramped through the underworld, a veritable cavern filled with incomprehensible horrors, he discovered a second advantage to the spear: the monsters here would explode in a rather unpleasant and messy fashion when they were felled. It was best to keep his distance.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he managed to kill enemies that were presumably already dead, but saw no need to think about it too intently. The infernal creatures would attack him unprovoked, and so he would stab them. It was a simple enough cause and effect.

Blasted creatures! Not a single one of them provided a challenge, and besting them felt no more satisfying than killing pests or vermin. Why, despite their monstrous nature, it almost seemed like they were getting _weaker_ as he journeyed lower. Still, as he slew the treacherous creatures, excitement built within him, for each victory meant he was one step closer to his goal.

Erebus, and thus the Minotaur, must have been very deep in the underworld indeed. It was rather insulting to him, truly. The Minotaur was the very greatest of monsters, and deserved better than to rot away alongside these ridiculous skeletons and pots with legs. Did the judges of the dead have no shame, forcing the rival of Athens’ greatest king to live (so to speak) in the underworld equivalent of squalor?

By the by, the increasingly twisted halls of the underworld—from the fields of Asphodel, to the stone walls of Tartarus, and on and on—came to remind him of that fateful day so many years ago in the labyrinth, and Theseus was inclined to wish that he had Ariadne’s thread to guide him.

No matter! He had me the Minotaur twice already, both alive and dead. He could do it a third time as well.

His quest had begun to seem like it would be without end until, as these things tended to go, his fortune turned all at once. For a moment it didn’t feel fortunate at all, as the entrance to Erebus turned out not to be a gate but rather a peculiar portal on the ground. He thought it was a portal, at least. He fell into it too quickly to notice the details.

The one that he landed on, however, was unmistakable. “Bull!” he cried, far louder than was necessary when he had landed directly in the arms of the Minotaur, who had done a surprisingly good job of catching him.

The Minotaur paused. “King?” he asked, hesitantly. Confused. “How did you come back?”

“I have journeyed far and wide to meet you again, of course!”

“From the ceiling?” He glanced up, and so did Theseus. There was no obvious entrance there, now. “An impressive entrance, and yet you should not be here. Return to where you came from.”

“I will return—with you! As I promised before, Minotaur.”

The Minotaur shook his head.

The very nerve of him! Theseus had come all of this way just for _him_ —he had known his destined rival was the Minotaur _all along_ , of course, it was so obvious now!—and the monster would just reject him outright? “I am not asking you! I am telling you: you will come with me.”

“You’re a hero,” he said, somehow explaining to the man something that should have been obvious. “Maybe you’d be better off finding someone to save.”

“If you’re going to be so insistent about it, maybe I should save _you_ ,” responded the man. “You are a strong foe, and a unique one. And I am the same, a strong _man_ , and a unique one! Why waste your strength here and not the arena of Elysium?”

It was quite a declaration to make when he was gently cradled in the arms of his rival.

Another million years in the depths of Hades couldn’t have prepared Asterius to hear such a response. To be saved was an impossibility; a monster was incapable of redemption by his very nature. “What cruel twist of fate is this? To make such a joke... you must be laughing at me.”

“I have never spoken in jest in my _life_ ,” he said, and he did truly sound taken aback. “You ought to know that a king has no time for making jokes. My mind has been made up! Bull of Minos, follow me onward and upward, to Elysium!”

There was a fire in his eyes that was the same as he’d had in the labyrinth so many years ago. It made it impossible not to take him seriously.

“Upward,” Asterius said, eyes trailing again to the ceiling. Still, nothing was there. Odd.

“Not- not literally,” Theseus sputtered. “Or maybe literally? There are stairs!”

Puzzled, Asterius finally set him on the ground, and Theseus started to dust himself off as he spoke. He’d obtained new clothes at some point, finery that Asterius was incapable of appreciating the details of but was sure suited his position.

“And what are your plans then, King? To slay me again, no doubt, so that I might be sent back to the place in Erebus where all monsters spawn from. And then what? Return here, and do the same thing once more, for eternity? Humans have their hobbies, I suppose, and perhaps yours is to go on meaningless adventures. You might instead take up wielding or winemaking.”

It was pompous to think that they could ever reconcile, pompous and foolish and downright dangerous, really, Asterius _was_ a monster, albeit one that no longer had any need to kill in order to feed.

And it was so like a king to not care about any of that.

“I do not wish to kill you, Minotaur. What I wish for instead is a suitable _rival_.” He tapped the base of his spear on the ground, as if to emphasize his point. “And no human is as qualified for that position as you are!”

“A rival?” Asterius repeated. “You could not find a man to fill the position, not in all of Elysium? If you’re such a great king, surely anyone would be pleased to spar with you.”

“And yet, you are the one that I have chosen, for I believe we have much to learn from each other. I was your only companion in the Labyrinth, and I knew your family as well! One might say that I am closer to you than anyone else already."

Asterius blinked. It was bold of the king indeed to call himself a _companion_ in life. “It is the opposite, King. The two of us are enemies.”

“Such things are one and the same, when you think about it. And thus!” Theseus made a broad gesture, one that seemed meaningless—until Asterius heard the clatter of metal against stone. The king had tossed his spear and shield aside, disarming himself. Once again, they stood on equal grounds. “I ask you again—nay, I _demand_ for you to come with me. As for what is to come, we will find it together!”

So many words to say things that made little sense. Was this how men were? Speaking endlessly, incessantly, until their curiosities were satisfied? Asterius knew not what might be typical; perhaps as a king, Theseus was more talkative than most, and more persistent.

His only response was a contemplative snort. This, he noticed, did not make Theseus jump half as much as it had in the past

“You wished to die when I approached you so many years ago," Theseus continued. "Without even intending it, I gave you what you wanted.”

“You delivered me,” Asterius confirmed. Was it so unimaginable that such an unholy creature would prefer for his suffering to end? Theseus had never wished for his own death, he supposed. “And so I owe you my favor, though I don’t like to admit it.”

“So then, even you can see that our fates are entwined! And even you must understand that there is no reason to distrust the fates.”

“I cannot deny them, that much is true. Nor can I question their prophecies. But I have never been loved by fate, and so I prefer not to concern myself too much with it. In the end, it will find me either way.”

“You are a rather depressing conservationist, Bull," Theseus said, frowning.

Asterius snorted. “It is what it is.”

“Have you heard, then, of the River Lethe?” Theseus did not offer him a chance to respond. “She flows through Elysium, allowing all to drink of her blessings. But she is no ordinary stream: the Lethe lets her drinkers forget.”

“Forget?” The finer points of paradise were unfamiliar to Asterius, for nobody had ever bothered to teach him about an afterlife that would be impossible for him to reach.

“Many great men suffer through great distress: war, death, torment, and so on. To some, it’s impossible to imagine a paradise where they are still haunted by those memories. And thus! The Lethe allows them that comfort of no longer having the burden of memory, of knowledge.”

“And you? Was your life so grand that you have nothing you’d prefer not to remember?”

Theseus laughed, though it was difficult to tell if the tone of it was amused or bitter. “I have seen all of these things and more. But these were the things that made me great, that made me deserve to be called king. To forget my traumas would be to forget who I am, and to forget the very reason I’ve earned my place in Elysium. No, I will never drink of the Lethe. Enticing as the waters themselves may be, to me they can only offer a curse. But for you! Things are not the same.”

“You think I should drink from the river and forget my pain. To exist only as your rival.” Asterius paused, considering.

“I do indeed! If your past makes it impossible to find fulfillment in battle—the thing that all men, even bull-men, ought to love, why not allow yourself to forget? You could be born anew in Elysium, your mind fresh as a newborn babe’s!”

The thought of it was enticing. The past brought Asterius nothing but pain; his memories were of his family leaving him behind, of the fear he had felt in the labyrinth, of the death and pain he had wrought while satisfying his hunger the only way that he was allowed. To begin anew would be unimaginable.

He could be _free_.

To be sure, that would mean that all he would know in this new life would be Theseus, this odd king that stood before him. It didn’t seem so bad when he thought of it that way, either. If the man was truly half as compassionate and forgiving as he seemed now, it might not be so bad to wile away the hours basking in his glory, hoping to absorb some small bit of goodness for himself. Asterius could not be a good man, even then, but he could perhaps be a suitable _companion_ to the king.

And if the king was merely play-acting, and wished to torment him for his own amusement, it would only be what Asterius deserved.

Still, there was the question of who he might _be_ , after drinking. What humanity he had might be credited to the dimmed memories of his mother. “Your idea has promise,” Asterius finally replied. “But aren’t you worried that it will backfire? A hero without his memories is still a good man, no doubt. But a beast-man without his memories...”

“It will not!" Theseus replied with far more confidence than seemed warranted.

“Why do you speak as though you know me?”

“I know this: you were kindly when you were a babe. Gentle. Sweet, even.”

“A bold statement from one who did not know me then.”

“I know things, Bull. In time you may understand, if you accept my offer.”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Asterius said. It was already clear that the king saw this conversation as a challenge, one that he would not back down on.

“You do have a choice. I want to make that quite clear—you always have a choice. But that won’t stop me from standing firm in my own choice to take a chance on you.”

It occurred to Asterius then that nobody ever _had_ taken their chances on him, except for his mother and sister. Everyone else saw him for who he clearly was on the surface: a threat. To be seen otherwise by a man who wasn’t even family, though he apparently fancied himself a friend, was incomprehensible.

An unrecognizable warmth filled his chest, and only grew as he watched Theseus smile. Once again, his gaze met Asterius’ squarely; once again, Asterius willed himself not to shy away from it. To create such an expression on a normal man’s face, to bring such _joy_ to a _man_ , was indescribable.

Asterius wanted to believe that Theseus’ confidence was justified, that he could drink from the Lethe and be delivered, once again, from his sorrows. Perhaps then, when Theseus turned his shining smile toward him and called him _rival_ with equal parts determination and satisfaction, he would believe that he deserved just a small bit of that mercy

Logic dictated that he could be lying, that he was _probably_ lying. But Asterius had nothing to lose. And truly, very little to gain. To be rivals with the king... if that was to be his fate, Asterius supposed he could accept it. It didn’t seem like he had much of a choice, nor did Theseus appear to be inclined to give up or give in.

“I will go,” Asterius said, finally.

“Oh? Have I finally worn you down?” Theseus grinned, seemingly quite proud of himself. “Then you agree with me!”

“I’m not sure.” In truth, he wanted to agree. The afterlife Theseus described was far beyond the scope of his imagination. And yet his what he had to say was appealing, and Asterius wanted—

Not Elysium, not really. But he wanted to know this odd king and his beautiful words better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your comments, especially to the unfathomably sweet readers commenting on every chapter I've been slow about responding sometimes, but I do read them (over and over again...) and appreciate every one!
> 
> If you follow me on twitter you probably already know this, but I am a strong believer in Theseus being the "better to beg forgiveness than ask permission type", and my preferred headcanon is that he simply walked down and plucked Asterius out of Erebus by himself. Of course, this means that he had to essentially play Hades, only backwards.
> 
> I'm honestly not sure if Theseus' logic entirely makes sense in this chapter but I'm also not sure if Theseus' logic makes sense, ever, so I guess it's fine. When he talks about being alive he usually glosses over the whole killing Asterius thing, which has led me to believe that he would describe it oddly when discussing it with Asterius as well. These two really have their own odd way of communicating with each other, and I wanted to have it start to develop early on in their relationship. Whether that comes through as I intended is a different matter...
> 
> Canon Asterius is so confident in himself and his relationship with Theseus, but I imagine that at one point he was confused about both of these things, and for a while it got increasingly confusing before it started to make sense. He'll figure it out eventually!
> 
> I find the idea of the River Lethe very interesting, and I'm surprised I don't see it pop up more in Hades fic! Such good potential for angst and conflict... will Asterius drink? Who knows! (I know.) (You can probably make a good guess, too.)


	6. Rivalry, or More?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey to Elysium is perhaps more precarious than either of them expected, and Theseus and Asterius learn something new about their relationship.

When they set off, Asterius had expected... something. Some method of restraint, some tool to prevent him from assaulting his savior. Instead, Instead, Theseus had only taken his spear and shield in hand and began to walk onward, leaving his unarmored back vulnerable to attack.

Asterius had to assume that it was a conscious show of trust in him, and the thought gave him a funny feeling. Minos had never left himself open to an attack from his wife’s foul spawn for even a moment, despite the fact that Asterius was both too small and too fearful to even consider assaulting him. Theseus apparently did not share Minos' viewpoint or else he was too foolish to think about it—and he was no fool.

Asterius didn’t hunger for flesh any longer. He hungered for nothing; it seemed as though he was incapable of want. And so, Theseus was correct: though Asterius had every opportunity to get the best of him, he lacked the desire.

What point was there to this? To anything? Asterius wished, not for the first time, that death could have simply been nothingness. This was too _complicated_.

As per usual, Theseus had made his offer on impulse. Not to take the Minotaur to Elysium, no— that had been the intention all along. But to bring up the Lethe, and to offer it to his newfound companion hadn’t been part of the intended script. He’d blurted it out the very moment that he thought of it, and the usually stubborn Minotaur, surprisingly, had agreed.

They set off across Erebus, ignoring the stares of both man and beast. The Minotaur was quiet, but seemed to move with a new confidence, a new purpose.

His silence made it too easy for Theseus to think too much. Would it really be so good for them to lose their shared history? This was the only reason the Minotaur followed him now. The beast was not a captive, and if he lost his interest in Theseus, he would be free to go where he pleased.

If he did not have the Minotaur, then— what _would_ Theseus have to look forward to in this endless afterlife?

Theseus shook his head rapidly, as though it would force those thoughts out of it. If they were truly the perfect rivals, such a thing would not happen.

The Minotaur glanced at him, confused. “Are you all right, Theseus?”

“That is _King_ Theseus!” he said. “And, ah, I am well! Only thinking about you.”

“Thinking about me.”

“About how you have been born into darkness, and now can choose the path of light!”

“That is true, King.”

The Minotaur became silent again. Perhaps, Theseus thought, it was indeed best he forget his past, so that he’d no longer be so damned gloomy all of the time!

As if it wasn’t a challenge enough to drag him from the pits of Erebus, Theseus was being driven to near madness by his own ruminations. Of course it was the Minotaur, unlike any other man, who could challenge him in wits as well as he could in combat!

What would Ariadne think if she saw them now, two enemies acting now as traveling partners? She might laugh, Theseus thought, at the irony of it all—or even cry tears of joy to see her brother acting like a man once again. For the first time in perhaps a hundred years he wondered where she might have gone off to after they had parted. Nowhere particularly interesting, he supposed.

What _was_ interesting was the layout of this damned place, and by “interesting”, Theseus meant that it was infuriating. They passed monsters and confused shades aplenty, searching for the path out to no avail. Erebus was much like a massive and dimly lit cave, with no clear entrances or exits. Not even on the ceiling, where he had come from not an hour before!

It felt like no time at all before they reached the extremities of Erebus, where no more souls were there biding their time, but still their next step was unclear. The quiet Minotaur hadn’t even bothered to ask if Theseus knew where he was going, let alone provide any of his own suggestions, and a certain anxiety grew within Theseus because of it. He had reassured his traveling partner that he would find them a way out and toward paradise, and yet it seemed that they were growing no closer.

Theseus glanced at his companion hoping his myriad concerns were not visible on his face. The Minotaur had continued to follow closely behind, and if he had doubts in Theseus he did not show it. Yet there was a distance between them that was vast indeed.

To Theseus’ great relief, they arrived at their pathway to the glorious land of heroes before the Minotaur asked any questions. On the ground nearby was the portal that would lead them, presumably, onward. It was similar to the one he had fallen into before, as best as Theseus could tell, and so it _should_ take them back to Tartarus. Probably.

The Minotaur did not know that they’d stumbled upon it quite accidentally, but still he voiced his doubts. “It can’t be the exit,” the Minotaur stated plainly. “The lord of the dead should have placed a guard of some sort.”

“Ah, that is where you are wrong!” Theseus said. He did not need to admit to the beast that he, too, had expected the process to be more arduous. When Theseus had first excited Elysium, there had been no guard nor lock, only that nasty hydra who turned out to be about as fragile as its bony form suggested. The security in Erebus seemed to be even looser. For that, he scrambled for an explanation that the Minotaur might accept. “That is, uh— I have a place of honor, one that comes with quite a bit of freedom!”

The Minotaur tilted his head, apparently either unconvinced, unimpressed, or both. “Even if that is the case, I will still need to gain similar permission. What is your suggestion?”

Theseus balked at the question. He was a man who had ventured into the underworld, going where he pleased and taking what he wished heedless of the appropriate procedures when he was _alive_. Surely there was no reason to doubt that he could get whatever recompense he desired in _death_ , now that he was actually meant to be there. Yet the beast made a reasonable enough point: there was no way of knowing how he would fare outside of Erebus. It could very well be the case that Elysium itself would reject him, or that the Furies might come and drag him back to the depths that he had been meant for.

But doubt had never stopped Theseus even once in his life, and it wasn’t in death that he would let it defeat him. “Trust me!” he said. “I know what I’m doing, and I will not allow you to be left behind. There are inner workings to the underworld that only the greatest of heroes are privy to.”

And thus, with a show of confidence that he did not feel, Theseus held out his hand; the Minotaur only stared, not taking it. His face was unreadable as ever, damn those bovine features. Theseus found himself quickly growing impatient. So be it! He would take the creatures’ hand himself, and damn how he felt about it!

He said nothing, pretended not to notice, when the Minotaur flinched at his touch. He had _accepted_ it, and that was enough. It occurred to Theseus that this was the first time he had held someone’s hand—not a firm handshake, not a joyous wrestling match—for as long as he could remember.

It was... nice? He missed it, this sort of wholly affectionate gesture.

Since Theseus had traveled through the same sort of gate on his way to Erebus, he expected the feeling that followed: like he was suddenly flying through the air, pulled and pushed at all sides by a force he couldn’t name. It was harder with two of them, hard to keep his grip on the Minotaur’s hand firm even as some chaotic force from beyond spoke directly into his mind.

 _There is a certain harmony to the arrangement of things here,_ the voice said. _Is it wise to question the rulings of the gods?_

This was new.

He ignored the voice, whoever it was. Theseus would be a king that broke and rewrote any law that did not suit him, or he would not be a king at all.

When they reached the other side, the outskirts of the meadows of Asphodel—not as grand as Elysium, but suitable enough for an afterlife, he supposed—what surprised Theseus was not that they had arrived safely. It was that even after they set foot on solid ground, the Minotaur had not let go of his hand.

Understanding his own feelings came slowly to Asterius. They had to: he’d nobody to teach him how, since he had been trapped in the labyrinth so young. Still, he did his best to put a name to each of his struggles, each one grander than the last: hunger, grief, melancholy

And still, what he felt in that moment when he took Theseus’ hand was indescribable. It was warm and comforting, the way he imagined he must have felt once when his mother held him when he was but a babe. But he did not feel relaxed, the way he thought he might have when he had a family. Though it seemed impossible now that he was dead, his head was light, and he wished to touch the king more, like he had when they wrestled.

Was this called affection, then? There was no way to know, but he did not wish to stop. Not yet.

The journey felt at once like it took a thousand years and a single instant—much like his time in Erebus, and in the labyrinth before that. Where they arrived was not, it seemed, the darkness of Tartarus, but rather somewhere more pleasant. He felt grass against his feet, soft and surprisingly scratchy, and he saw bushes and trees. It was so much like the sights outside of his windows in Crete, the outside world he had been forbidden from visiting.

Plain. Simple. Until this very moment, unattainable. He might weep tears of joy. Instead, he squeezed the king’s hand more tightly.

“Is this Elysium?” he asked. It seemed like the most beautiful place that could possibly exist.

“Asphodel,” Theseus explained, grinning. “A place for those who lived average lives, earning an average death. Elysium is brighter, lusher— in all ways, it is grander!”

Shades milled around them, ones that lacked the monstrous traits he had grown accustomed to seeing in Erebus. But they also did share the king’s majesty and splendor, and so sterius supposed they could indeed be unremarkable individuals, sent to Hades to do nothing in particular. Many of them gawked openly, no doubt shocked by the sight of a great beast clinging onto a majestic hero, but none found reason to speak, perhaps reassured by Theseus’ air of confidence.

When he regained his bearings, he forced himself to let go of Theseus’ hand, and the king did not comment on it. Of course not: what Theseus wanted was to fight him, and that was all. It was silly to think it might be anything more.

Theseus strode forward, gesturing for Asterius to follow. Though the Minotaur tread slowly, carefully as though he might accidentally step on one of the shades if he weren’t careful, his wide stride allowed him to keep up with ease It might turn out to be a long journey indeed, but at least they had an eternity to take it.

In time they arrived at a place where shades no longer milled about, and a staircase was visible in the distance. “The outskirts of Asphodel,” the king explained. “Hades, lord of the Underworld, allows the dead to move freely within their assigned places. But the Lernaen Hydra guards the exit, so that none may leave to enter Elysium. I slew it on my way here, _naturally_ ,” Theseus explained, “but things don’t stay dead for long around here. That’s the fun of it!”

Asterius had only snorted as a sort of response, wondering if the Hydra might prefer to stay dead for a time after an unimaginable amount of time spent standing guard.

“It was easy enough on my own, so it should take no time at all with the two of us, Bull,” Theseus added. “The creature bides its time under the ground, but it will emerge before we reach the exit.”

Though he had expected the ground beneath him to rumble and shake when they reached the outskirts of Asphodel—marked by their arrival on an island surrounded on all sides by water that Theseus was quick to point out was _nothing_ compared to the picturesque streams of Elysium—Asterius still lost his bearings for a moment when it actually occurred. It had been so long since he had fought, and now he had no weapon, not even the stones he might have taken from the ground of the labyrinth should he have had the desire to fight back.

The Hydra rose from the ground, its body head seemingly at once both dead and alive, and Asterius found himself thoroughly glad that he had a partner like Theseus by his side.

Had he been a normal child, Asterius might have been taught how to fight from a young age, or at the very least been allowed a toy bow or axe to play with. As it was, his parents had hoped to do what they could to discourage any bloodthirst that might have developed within him, and so he was not familiar with any form of proper combat, even informally. What theoretical prowess in combat he may have had was due only to his size, and the Hydra’s bony form rose high above him, so he lacked even that advantage.

Theseus’ skill could make up for Asterius' incompetence, however, and the very moment that they spotted the Hydra, the king sprang into action. Any fear he may have felt did not show on his face—though even in life, Asterius thought, he had seemed fully incapable of being afraid. Asterius drew back as Theseus fought ferociously, his spear moving like lightning in a series of elegant thrusts and jabs. Though it didn’t seem like the bony Hydra had any sensitive bits of its body left, it nonetheless cried out in pain each time the king’s spear struck. Soon it gave a great cry—defeated already? It couldn’t be.

But as the Hydra screamed once more, many more heads rose around them from all sides. Every inch of Theseus was now gleaming with sweat, but a grin of wild confidence remained on his face. He moved onto the next head, and then next, systemically making short work of each one, all while Asterius watched.

The Hydra seemed not to have noticed the Minotaur, and by the by Asterius was able to find a hiding place behind some nearby trees. This was good: he would be safe as Theseus continued to make short work of the beast.

With his spear and shield Theseus fought like a force of nature, and soon one of the heads shattered, then another. The battle turned all at once: Theseus had his spear deep in the mouth of one of the heads, having once again struck true, and then— panic. This time the spear appeared to be jammed firmly inside, the bones of the Hydra unyielding. If the Hydra had an invisible weak point between its bones, Theseus had missed it this time, and now the spear was uselessly stuck in place.

It would be so simple for Asterius, still hidden, to take advantage of this chaos to sneak away. He could go off by himself to... well, certainly not Elysium, but he could be rid of Theseus and bide his time in Asphodel until the furies realized he was gone. Until now. that would be the best future he could imagine for himself.

But as Asterius watched the king struggle, was unable to bring himself to leave Theseus behind. He would be a fool not to enjoy the sight of the man who had ended his life being himself slain by a beast, a creature that Asterius ought to consider his kin.

Asterius had never thought of himself as especially wise.

As one head of the Hydra had nearly closed its massive jaw around Theseus, Asterius left his hiding place, charging ahead? He let out a great cry, startling king and beast both.

Soon he was able to reach around the Hydra and fling his arms around the neck, holding tightly to pull it away from Theseus and wrenching it off of the point of his spear. He needed no man-made tools of warfare when his very hands held more strength than the gods had ever intended to be wielded by one creature, least of all one that was allowed into Asphodel.

The king watched, eyes wide, but he did not hesitate to act the moment that he was able to free his spear. He shoved it through the creature’s head, shattering what would have been the eye socket. As with the others, it was like a chain reaction, and the whole head and neck fell to pieces.

“Fine work, Bull!” the king called over the largest head’s battle cry, his complement rising above the din of the battlefield and reaching Asterius’ ears easily. He must have had ample experience making himself be heard, and Asterius’ heart soared. Was this what it felt like to fight for _good_ , not for the cruel need to eat?

“I only wish I had a weapon, King.”

“When we reach Elysium, I will get you one. The finest in the land!”

If he’d had time to ponder, Asterius might have laughed at the thought of wielding a spear and shield in the same manner that Theseus did. Such regal things did not suit him the way that this did. “If it pleases you,” he called over the Hydra’s cries.

“It does! And it would please me even more if you would assist me in vanquishing the final head.”

Though it was the largest of them all, it seemed to Asterius that with their strength combined they could make short work of it. He was quickly proven right, as the pair of them flanked it and each unleashed his attacks. With each blow, his confidence in himself grew, and Asterius found himself feeling more alive than he had ever been when he lived and breathed.

The king allowed him to strike the final blow, though Asterius hadn’t requested it, and the Hydra’s final head exploded in a bright red liquid that wasn’t quite blood.

It was over, and Asterius was forced to take a moment to catch his breath. Theseus seemed barely winded; the battle instead left him practically aglow.

“That! That was it!” the king announced, louder than was necessary for his audience of one.

“What was it?” Asterius asked. Though he might have guessed what Theseus would say next, having felt it himself, he wanted to hear it from his own mouth.

“The call of combat! The boiling of a warrior’s blood, desperate to spill or be spilled! Asterius, you have fought well, better than any beast I’ve ever met and half the men as well!”

Asterius snorted in an intended gesture of dismissal, but the words of praise were welcome. He’d never gotten much in the way of complements; they felt _good_. “I’m not clever like a man. I have no knowledge of strategy. My only asset is my size.”

“But that’s just it! You bring something that I could not hope to match. You may deny it all you wish, but it’s clear that you will be a great warrior with even the smallest bit of training. You felt it too, did you not?”

Asterius was sure that he was a good liar. A cow’s face wasn’t very expressive. But Theseus was so honest that he felt compelled to speak the truth, regardless of the consequences that might arise from defying the gods’ wishes so thoroughly. “I do,” he admitted. He had enjoyed helping, enjoyed being useful. And… he had enjoyed the thrill of combat, now that it was for the good of another.

“Then it is settled!” Theseus said, his face lighting up. “As for what comes now—”

“Commencing our entrance to Elysium,” Asterius said, cutting him off.

“I was going to provide a few compliments about your intuition for combat, but we can talk about that instead, if you insist!”

“Please don’t compliment me any more. It’s embarrassing.”

He could never accept such words, even if their odd partnership lasted another thousand days. To be noble was as much in his nature as was to be human: he could only play-act at these things and perhaps fool naive people into believing them on occasion, as he had with Ariadne so many years before.

“Hmph! Do not resist my assessment! Would you so brazenly tell a king that he is incapable of fairly judging his subjects? Why, if that were so, he would no longer be fit to assign ranks to his generals, nor punishments to criminals.”

Asterius nodded, though he was still quite unconvinced. There was clearly no dissuading the king from his odd fancies, and so it was not worth the waste of time it would be to try.

“Onward, then!” said Theseus, evidently satisfied by the response. Asterius was quickly noticing that he read into his gestures whatever he wished to read into them. Fine, then, let him think he had worn Asterius down into agreeing. It made little difference.

Though there was no real reason for it, Theseus took his hand once again as they moved onward. Soon they approached what appeared to be the exit, a long flight of stairs stretching far beyond what was visible—or perhaps that was an illusion, and the flight was not long at all. In either case, Theseus led the way while Asterius followed directly behind him, trying his utmost to avoid walking either too quickly or too slowly.

It was hard work, staying in perfect step with a partner, trying to keep a pace that would neither rush him nor slow him down. But it was, he decided not unwelcome.

It seemed that Theseus had no time for rest, and instead he urged Asterius onward, upward.

Soon they reached the top of the staircase, and at once all five of Asterius’ senses were set ablaze: the feeling of a soft breeze in his mane, the sounds of chatter over yonder, the heat of what couldn’t truly be the sun. It was all so much, more of the world than he had ever been able to experience as a boy, more even than the beauty of Asphodel, and he nearly wept for it.

Theseus spoke once again, but in his state of overwhelming emotion, Asterius could not find the words to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The king is no fool. [citation needed]" - Asterius
> 
> Love a man who works so hard bullshitting his confidence that he just ends up seeming ridiculous! I like the idea of him blurting something out just in case it works and then ten minutes later going wait... was that a good idea.
> 
> Asphodel! It was a field, at some point! When? Now!
> 
> Despite their rocky past, I do think Asterius always sees the best in Theseus, and in at least this take it started early. Hence why he's willing to believe that Theseus knows what he's doing (wrong), that drinking from the Lethe must be a good idea if he suggested it (debatable), that the shades in Asphodel are letting them be because he impresses them rather than because the don't want to mess with this odd man and odder cow-man (wrong).
> 
> Anyway I try not to get down on my own writing but I have no idea how to write fight scenes! They fight together well, that's all that matters.


	7. Odd, But Not Unwelcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theseus learns Asterius' name. Asterius makes a decision.

Though the needs of the living—food, sleep, and so on—no longer limited either of them, a good long rest was nonetheless well earned. Theseus could not help but wonder what his bovine companion did for fun and indeed if he even knew how to have fun. Perhaps he would like to sit down and snack on some grass for a time?

(He didn’t want to eat humans in his afterlife, did he? That might complicate things.)

In any case the Minotaur was simply looking to and fro, no doubt taking in all of Elysium’s splendors. Theseus did not need to ask why. No doubt he had been waiting to see the sun for... well!

“How long has it been, Bull?”

The Minotaur blinked, his long eyelashes fluttering over deep, dark eyes. It still seemed his habit to only respond to Theseus slowly, and only when it suited him. This was fine: Theseus would simply repeat himself as many times as needed.

(He did not need to ask again; it turned out that the Minotaur was only contemplating his question.)

“How long has it been since what?” he asked.

“Since you’ve seen the sun! Or an approximate facsimile of, as it just so happens to be it in this case? I wish to know just how great of a mercy I have granted you.”

“Forever,” the Minotaur replied with a grunt. At first, Theseus had seen such grunting as a sign of anger or frustration; now, it seemed more like a cow’s sigh. Idle, maybe even thoughtful.

There had been little light in the labyrinth. A monster was meant to exist in darkness, or so Theseus had thought. So everyone had thought.

“Well, you weren’t _born_ in a maze,” Theseus paused. “You weren’t, were you?”

“No, I have seen the sun before, if only through the window. My mother... she did not wish to have me go outside, lest anyone see me and discover her shame. There were rumors of the kind of son she’d produced, of course, but for a time, nobody outside of our own household knew the truth. It did her no good in the end. By the time I was sent to the labyrinth, everyone knew about the Bull of Minos.”

“That hardly seems fair. Were you not given a chance to prove yourself to be more a boy than a beast?”

“Hmph. A test I would have failed.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“You did not know me then. I killed them all, in the labyrinth. Each of the sacrifices died thanks to me, and each corpse was destroyed by my teeth.”

“Bull’s teeth aren’t built for that,” Theseus mused, not especially bothered by the Minotaur’s confession. He had brought the Minotaur here with full knowledge of his prior diet, knowing that there was no need for the dead to eat. “It would have been an arduous process.”

The Minotaur snorted again. “It was.”

“Well! If all of your memories are so grotesque, I cannot blame you for abandoning them.”

“And you, King? You remember your own life quite clearly, I see. Why are you so eager to have me forget?”

Theseus shrugged. Wasn’t it obvious? “You seem like you’d be happier that way. As is, you are far too gloomy, and I would like to assist you!”

“You have no reason to care about my happiness.”

“No,” said Theseus. “I don’t have a reason. And yet—I do care! I suppose it must be that I pity you, or else I would prefer a less gloomy companion.”

But there was a stirring within him that he hadn’t felt in many moons, perhaps not since he and Pirithous had gone on their own heroic quests. The man had been Theseus’ greatest friend in life, and ah, the adventures they’d had! Things... had not quite worked out that way in the underworld, but it was all in the past now.

He had missed this feeling: this excitement, this energy!

Which was to say that he did care about the Minotaur’s happiness, whether or not the creature thought he ought to.

“You are strange, King,” said the Minotaur, and Theseus grinned, accepting it as a complement.

Many of the shades were eager to gawk at the returning king and his unexpected companion, and unlike in Asphodel, half of them appeared to fancy a fight with them as well. It raised Asterius’ hackles, but Theseus brushed past them all, unbothered. It took them a while to find an appropriate spot by the Lethe, one within a private glade.

“I have a question for you before we proceed,” said the king, sitting beside Asterius. He looked into the water, not at him, and their faces reflected side by side were not half as unmatched as Asterius might have once thought.

“I will answer anything I can,” Asterius replied, idly trailing his hand into the river. Soon he would have no answers for Theseus at all, so this would be his last chance. Surely the king wondered many things about his past, how he had killed the sacrifices, his strengths and weaknesses, and on and on.

“What is your name?”

Asterius did not answer immediately. The king had not asked this before, and so Asterius assumed that he did not care. What did it matter? Asterius didn’t mind the way Theseus called him “bull”. It was the same thing Minos called him most of the time and yet sounded so different on his lips.

From the man that was not his father, “bull” and “minotaur” and even “creature” were accusations, reminders that he would never belong to the world of humans. But Theseus made the same words seem almost affectionate.

“Minotaur—the bull of Minos—that’s no real name. Even your sister told me no other, but surely you must have one. You were born of a woman, and raised like a human for a time.”

He was inclined to say that it didn’t matter, that Theseus could call him whatever he wished or nothing at all, but he knew that would not be an adequate answer for the king. Instead, he answered with the truth.

“Asterius is what my mother called me. Adriane did as well, for a time. She must have been protecting you if she did not say it. She knew that if you caught a glimpse of my humanity you might hesitate.”

“Asterius,” Theseus repeated. “Asterius, is it? I like it! Much nicer than Minotaur, and so I shall use it from now on, if you don’t mind.”

“I do not mind, but I do not mind being called a bull, either. It is also true.”

“You are agreeable, Asterius. Too agreeable sometimes.”

Asterius snorted. “I do not hear that often.”

“You’ll begin to hear it more! In time, all of Elysium will learn your name—your true name.”

“That is a bold claim. Why should anybody here care about me?”

“You ask why anyone should care about my partner in battle? Me, the greatest king of Athens?”

“They may not accept me as your partner.”

“They will have to! Our partnership will be grand, so much so that none will be able to deny it. What weapon might you enjoy, do you think?”

“Whichever you think suits me. You’d be the one who would have to teach me.”

“I can wield any weapon known to man or beast, so that is of no concern! But I see what you mean—and so, I shall ponder it quite thoroughly.”

“You do that.”

“I will!” said Theseus.

They fell silent then, and in that silence was peace.

Asterius stared at his own reflection in the Lethe, and Theseus’ beside it. What a pair they made: a king, handsome, strong, and noble, alongside a beast who may as well have been his most prized livestock.

He would drink, and... then what? He supposed that Theseus would give another enthusiastic speech and tell Asterius all of his plans for him, and then Asterius, not knowing any better or having much of a choice, would do it. As for what the king would ask for him, well— sparring, certainly, but also joining him in matches against other heroes. King and bull, together in death as they were enemies in life. It didn’t sound real, yet Asterius was beginning to find reason to trust him.

Asterius knelt down and dipped one hand into the river, allowing it to flow between his fingers, pleasantly cool and perfectly clear. It seemed that there was nothing to fear. It would be so easy to scoop it up in his hands and drink until he’d had his fill.

And still, he hesitated. When he wandered through his labyrinth alone, forgetting the life he’d had before might have been a relief. But now, it all seemed to be behind him. Now his existence was about journeys and destinations, mutual banter, teamwork. It was about _Theseus_.

Asterius understood neither the morals of men nor the bonds between warriors that the king liked to speak of, but leaving behind his memories of Theseus so soon after they had grown closer felt wrong. He did not know what sort of bull—and what sort of man—he would be without his past. Would he have even half the feelings he now held in his heart for the man standing beside him?

He removed his hand from the water. “I will not drink,” he said. “Not now. Not until I have repaid you.”

Asterius had not thought his own words were so grand, but they seemed to have affected the king nonetheless. Theseus answered him with an unusually somber tone, his voice quiet but firm. “You owe me nothing for removing you from Erebus, for it was I who sent you there in the first place.”

“No, you saved me. From the senseless slaughter I was the cause of in life, and the equally meaningless existence I had found in death. That is twice, and so I will repay you twice over, and take the Lethe as my reward.”

“You’ve surprised me a dozen times over in our short time together, Bull. If you promise to surprise me once again, I look forward to it.”

Theseus held out his hand once again; Asterius took it, though he was unsure of the gesture’s significance. Theseus clasped his other hand over Asterius’, then shook it firmly

“A sign of respect between warriors,” Theseus explained when he realized that Asterius was not reciprocating.

Between warriors? Asterius was not a warrior, not yet. It was an odd thing to say. Odd, but not unwelcome.

Asterius had already found that he gained new vigor when he entered Elysium, as if the land itself was providing him with strength and energy, and he soon began to feel a bit more like the warrior that Theseus had sworn that he could become. Erebus had filled his belly, but little else. But in Elysium, he wanted to move. To run, to leap, to test the strength and the limits of his body.

It made sense: he was in the final resting place of all great warriors, and many of them wished to spend their afterlives fighting. What would be more of a paradise for their benefit than a place where simply _being_ provided one with the ability to fight on endlessly?

Idly, he wondered what the king of the underworld might think if he knew that the Bull of Minos was enjoying the invigorating properties of Elysium. It still didn’t seem quite right, his being here and able to do just about anything he pleased, but as time continued to pass it seemed less and less likely that any of the gods had noticed that he was there, or if they had, they hadn’t cared enough to stop him.

(He pointed this out to Theseus, who simply said _of course! They wish for me to be happy, so it is only natural you will be permitted here without question! Have I not said as much before?_

Asterius wondered what it must be like to live—and die—with that sort of confidence.)

The king, at least, appeared to be thrilled with the way things were turning out. Now that the matter with the Lethe had been, in a way, resolved, the two of them were free to move onto what was to come next. To Theseus, that seemed to mean chatting away as they idly strolled through Elysium. Asterius supposed that he had been waiting to explain the details of his life until he knew that there was a chance that Asterius would remember them.

Now, he spoke of grand adventures and epic fights, of building a city and helping it to thrive. Asterius listened closely to his words, though he understood only about half of them. There were so many things making up Theseus' life that Asterius had never heard of.

And with equal enthusiasm he talked about himself, and his own deeds and accomplishments, until soon Asterius began to feel that he knew the king quite well indeed though his stories of places and things that Asterius was wholly unfamiliar with.

Though Asterius couldn’t understand the finer points of the conversation and spoke little, only contributing the occasional grunt and nod and _I see, King_ , he never once grew bored. How could he? Theseus was an accomplished storyteller, which was made clear by the vibrancy of his words, and he had been a great king. It had indeed been an honor to be slain by him, and a greater honor still to be chosen as his companion.

“And I said, ‘damn you, scum, you are less than the dirt that is under my sandals!’ but he cared _not_ , even though I was his _king_. Can you believe such a thing, Asterius?” Theseus said, concluding one of several stories.

“I cannot, King,” Asterius replied automatically. It was hard to focus on the specifics of Theseus’ words now, though, when he was being called by _name_.

The name sounded so natural on Theseus’ lips. Not even Asterius’ own mother, who had given him that name herself, spoke to him so comfortably. It seemed that was simply Theseus’ way: warm and welcoming. Stubborn, but doing everything he could in the name of justice.

Really, Asterius was lucky to be in his good graces.

“So! Our next task is to begin our training together.”

The Minotaur blinked, confused by the sudden change of topic. “Is it?”

“It is!” Theseus responded, as though it was the most logical thing in the world. Perhaps it was. “You have immense potential, but you don’t understand the ways that _men_ like to fight. This, you will need to be taught, and nobody is more equipped to tame the Bull of Minos than me!”

Asterius took some offense at the implication that he had to be tamed and taught like a wild animal might, but saying as much did not seem appropriate. “I will be happy for any lessons that you wish to give me, King.”

“No, no, that’s no good! What do you want to learn? Just name it, and I will give you the best education that Elysium has to offer. There must be something.”

Asterius shrugged. “Nothing in particular. My body is strong.”

“Well! So is mine, and I’ve still wielded multiple weapons, as needed.”

“It’s not the same thing. You are a human, who faces other humans. I am a monster. How many monsters wield human weapons?”

“The centaurs do!” Theseus said. Asterius did not ask what a centaur was. “What do you fear? Growing _too strong_?” He scoffed, as though the mere thought of it was ridiculous.

He was correct, despite his doubt. Asterius did not wish to possess strength that he could not adequately control, lest he harm anyone inadvertently.

“What will you have me do after that?”

“Why, we will fight all of the others! Already we are able to flank an opponent and attack in harmony with one another. It will be easy enough to hone our skills and bring them to the Elysian arenas, where many spirits of warriors gather to fight. There are tournaments, rivalries—sports as well, if you are so inclined to run, wrestle, or throw the discus.”

“Is it so simple? They will… allow you to bring me?”

Theseus crossed his arms, appearing rather irritated that he had to be the one to explain all of this, and in turn Asterius’ gaze turned toward the ground. But the king was patient enough with him, despite his clear annoyance. “Why not? I enjoyed our matches—both of them, but especially the second. I was under the _distinct_ impression that you did as well, Bull.”

Asterius nodded. The king’s words were correct, though he did seem to frame things in a way that made things sound far simpler than they were.

“Elysium is a paradise, and I am a hero,” Theseus continued. “You are an essential part of my story—and you have your own story that you are a hero of as well, though it has become quite clear to me that yours is a tragedy. Yes, Asterius, I would that you fight me, again and again, for the rest of eternity. It would make me the happiest man in the afterlife. And if it makes you happy too, all the better.”

“And if I say no?”

The king’s face visibly fell, but the firmness in his voice did not waver. “Then you shall enjoy Elysium, I suppose.”

That the offer had been presented to him in this way somehow made following the king more appealing. If they tired of one another, they could simply part ways.

“If you are allowing me to choose of my own free will, then I will not decline.”

“Perfect! We can start tomorrow!”

Though Asterius was not entirely sure if the Underworld had true days and nights, the king’s enthusiasm was contagious nonetheless, and his dead heart somehow felt as though it was fluttering with excitement. “Tomorrow? Not right away?”

“We ought to rest first, Asterius! Go to your quarters, and I will go to mine.”

Asterius only stared, confused. “My… quarters.”

“Elysium will provide all that its people need, and now you too belong to Elysium. When I first came here, I was immediately able to find a place for myself among the other heroes. You, too, will find yours, and you will know immediately when you do. You will find yourself drawn to it!”

Almost as soon as Theseus finished speaking they reached his own quarters, which turned out to be a small building decorated with intricate marble carvings. Asterius peaked inside when Theseus entered, and he noticed that the inside, too, was adorned with all manner of fine things: pottery and drinking goblets lined up on shelves, rugs adorning stone floors, even a thick purple blanket on the bed. They lingered there at the doorway for a moment, Theseus inside of his quarters and Asterius outside, until Asterius realized that he was no longer glancing inside but openly gazing at the king's possessions.

They were the same kind of nice things that his family had owned, and that he had been forbidden from touching—ostensibly because he had been a small boy, but he suspected that there had been other reasons as well.

“Well,” Asterius said when he realized he no longer felt half as lighthearted as he had mere moments ago, “in that case, I will see you again tomorrow. If such things and todays and tomorrows exist in eternity at all.”

“We’ll figure it out!” said Theseus, brightly, seemingly unaware of the way the Minotaur’s mood had shifted. “You have not forgotten me after all, so it should be easy. But for now I will allow you some private time. You seem the sort of man to appreciate it— _Asterius_.”

The use of his name was still strange to hear.

Asterius nodded, and forced himself to look away.

If there were other heroes nearby, none seemed to notice him, and Asterius himself did not look for them. Instead he searched for the place Theseus spoke of: Asterius’ own quarters in Elysium.

He never did find it. But he wasn’t fond of the thought of staying indoors, so that suited him just fine. Elysium was comfortable, with soft grass and clear skies, and he was content to simply curl up beneath a tree and do his best to bide his time until the next day, or the Elysian equivalent thereof.

Relaxation did not come to him, not when so much had happened in such a short time—and most of it so very pleasant. Though it seemed as though there was something missing with Theseus gone once again, this time he was able to ease into a more content rest, this time confident that it would not be for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This bull and I are sworn to each other for the rest of eternity! We are rivals and brothers alike, we fight together and we die together!" "Ah okay what's his name?" "UHH."
> 
> (Truly, what is more Theseuscore than not thinking ahead enough to ask the bull's name?)
> 
> I suspect this chapter was pretty predictable overall. Asterius drinking from the Lethe and Theseus struggling to decide what parts of his past, if any, to share with him would be an interesting fic in and of itself, but not really canon-compliant. (I might have said this already, but I had a lot of ideas for this fic and I narrowed it down by deciding what was relatively canon-compliant and fit the general lighthearted tone of how Theseus and Asterius are presented and speak in the game). The romantic potential of "I don't understand these feelings but I don't want to forget them" is just a bonus.
> 
> The biggest struggle is deciding if Asterius _did_ want to drink from a river, whether he'd do it like a person or a cow.
> 
> For those who were waiting for more affection shown between these two... you're in luck. This chapter marks a kind of shift from the characters working through their old conflict from life toward them learning to work together against outside issues.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on my [fic twitter](https://twitter.com/surprisepink_) or my [regular twitter](https://twitter.com/seraphknights)!


End file.
